The home life of Swinburne

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
The last and best photograph

THE HOME LIFE
OF SWINBURNE

BY

CLARA WATTS-DUNTON

LONDON

A. M. PHILPOT

69 GREAT RUSSELL STREET

1922

"PR,

5513

COPYRIGHT

CAHILL AND CO., LTD., LONDON, DUBLIN AND DROCHEDA.

TO

THE LADY ARCHIBALD CAMPBELL OF ARGYLL,

THE LOYAL FRIEND OF SWINBURNE AND WATTS-DUNTON,

THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

BY THE AUTHOR.

PREFATORY NOTE

THREE of the chapters of " The Home Life of
Swinburne " have appeared as articles in the
Nineteenth Century and After. I have to
tender my thanks to the editor of that magazine
for his permission to reprint them.

C.W.D,

CONTENTS

PAGE

CIL

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES . . . .15

CHAPTER II

EARLY IMPRESSIONS . . . .29

CHAPTER III
" THAT ' LIMBER ELF ' " . . .39

CHAPTER IV

SWINBURNE AS A BIBLIOPHILE . . .49

CHAPTER V

SWINBURNE WHEN FIRST I KNEW HIM , , .60

CHAPTER VI

THE HOUSEMATES . . . . .67

CHAFER VII

THE HAWTHORNS . . . . .78

v

CHAPTER VIII

Miss ISABEL SWINBURNE . . . .88

CHAPTER IX

SWINBURNE'S CONSTITUTIONAL \ . . .93

11

CONTENTS
CHAFER X

PAGE

A POET'S FADS . . . . . 103

CHAPTER XI
THE BARD AS A MAN OF BUSINESS . . .116

CHAPTER XII
SWINBURNE'S HUMOUR . . . .125

CHAPTER XIII

SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN . . . .136

\
CHAPTER XIV

CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES . > . . . 148

CHAPTER XV
THE SEA AND THE BABIES \ . .170

CHAPTER XVI
TABLE TALK . . . . . .198

CHAPTER XVII
A WELCOME VISITOR ..... 208

CHAPTER XVIII
MISCELLANEA ...... 217

CHAPTER XIX
THE T\yo SWINBURNES . . . . . 240

CHAPTER XX

THE PASSING OP THE POET . . . . 246

CHAPTER XXI

" Lost" TO SIGHT " . . . . . 266

CHAPTER XXII

A POET'S GRAVE . v . . . .281

12

ILLUSTRATIONS

Algernon Charles Swinburne. The last and best

photograph .... Frontispiece

FACING PAGE

Bust of A. C. Swinburne by Dressier . . .60

A. C. Swinburne and T. Watts-Dunton. In the garden

at The Pines . . . . . .74

The garden at The Pines from the window of Swin-
burne's study, showing the statue that came from
Rossetti's garden . . . .102

Swinburne at the age of four . . .142

Swinburne as St. George in a cartoon by D. G. Rossetti 190

Facsimile of Swinburne's handwriting. The opening
and final sentences from the draft of the Dedicatory
Epistle addressed to Watts-Dunton in the collected
edition of the poet's works . . .192

Facsimile of Swinburne's inscription in the set of
his collected works presented by him to Clara
Watts-Dunton . . . . .194

Statuette of Victor Hugo. One of Swinburne's most

cherished possessions .... 224

The room in which Swinburne died . . .260

Swinburne's grave (on the left) in Bonchurch

Churchyard ..... 282

13

CHAPTER I

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES

MY mother, Mrs. Reich, met Watts-Dunton
when I was a girl at school, and they were friends
almost at once. She was a woman of fine musical
ability besides being a keen judge of books and
their authors, and she became a visitor at The
Pines, Putney Hill, where Swinburne and his de-
voted friend resided. I was sixteen years of age
when my mother took me to visit Mr. Watts as
Watts-Dunton was then called. In a chapter
contributed to his biography I have described that
visit and the wonderful change in my life which it
preluded. It was the first step little though I
dreamed it that led to my marriage to the great
critic and brought me into domestic relationship
with Algernon Charles Swinburne. I did not,
however, see Swinburne on the occasion of my
first visit to The Pines. A whole year elapsed

15

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

before I was formally presented to the greatest
English poet of his day.

Exactly a week after this first visit a note came
to my mother from Mr. Watts asking if we " would
like to come and dine with Swinburne and me."
It may, perhaps, be conjectured that this invita-
tion thrilled me at least as much as my mother's
proposal of the week before : ' ' I am going to take
you to meet my friend Mr. Watts." As a matter
of fact, the contrary was the case. The presence
of the famous poet would, it seemed to me,
interfere with the delightful flow of my newly-
found friend's conversation. From my first visit
I had come away in an ecstasy of admiration and
exultation. I had gone merely pleased with the
idea of meeting the author of a work which I
loved the sonnet sequence on the Fausts of
Berlioz, Gounod and Schumann. I had come away
with a warm regard for the man. Until I met him
again I lived in a state of longing anticipation.
My school-lessons were neglected or forgotten in
tribute to that unmistakable and arresting gift of
personality which was his in marvellous measure.
School-girl though I was, I could discern in him
the divine gift of genius, and I had no desire to
meet his famous friend since I found himself so
satisfying.

16

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES

In fact, an uncomfortable feeling of shyness
came over me at the idea of meeting S.winburne.
It was not that I feared to experience any sort
of mauvaise honte, for I had no lack of the self-
possession required by people unknown to fame
on being presented to a celebrity. The fact was
that at this juvenile period of my existence,
Swinburne's poetry was " caviare " to me if not
to " the general," and I imagined he would expect
me to know a great deal about it in fact, to be
a profound Swinburnian, though my actual excur-
sions into the realms of his Muse had covered very
little ground. It is true my Canadian governess at
school had read to me portions of " Songs before
Sunrise," and was never tired of telling me of the
wonderful effect " Atalanta " had produced upon
her when in 1865 she read this masterpiece for the
first time in far-away Toronto. She would recite
to me bits from the choruses, and I became
quite accustomed to hearing her declaim at odd
moments in a voice throbbing with a sense of
their beauty that soul-stirring lyric which
begins

When the hounds of spring are on winter's traces,

The mother of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places

With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
B 17

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Often during our walk she would carry with her
to read under the trees while the girls played
rounders or tennis a volume of Swinburne in an
American edition, the outside cover of which grew
quite familiar to me. It was " Laus Veneris,"
the work now generally known as " Poems and
Ballads." She would sit reading it, entirely
absorbed and lost in its pages and oblivious of
everything around her. If during a halt in our
game I came near her to rest for a while, up would
go her finger to admonish silence and a gentle
4 ' Sh Sh ! ' would issue from her half-parted
lips. When it was time to return to the house
she would cause me to walk beside her, and then
I would hear about " Anactoria " and other of
the glorious pieces to be found within the covers
of her cherished volume. She prized her " Laus
Veneris ' ' very much, and had brought it with
her from America. She was fond of telling me
how eagerly after reading "Atalanta in Calydon "
she had seized upon it when it first came out.
But she never told me of the succes du scandale
which its appearance evoked, although she must
have known all about it. A good deal of water
had to flow under London Bridge before I could
put before the reader this interesting evidence of
one of Swinburne's friends then resident in

18

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES

Boston, U.S.A. of the extraordinary sensation
" Laus Veneris " caused in America in 1866.

Dec. 2nd, 1866.

To Algernon Swinburne, Pagan, suffering persecution
from the Christians . . . greeting.

You may have already heard, mon cher, that your book
is making a furore in this continent. No new volume of
Tennyson has ever made more talk. . . . The publisher
has sold 6,000 and is now printing the seventh. Mr.
Emerson, to whom I was introduced yesterday, asked me
a great many questions about you. He had read your
" Madonna Mia " detached and instantly got the book.

Lowell, he said (" Biglow Papers " Lowell) being a
linguist was especially interested in that department of
your brain, his curiosity having been excited about your
Greek verses and French songs.

I have just read Eraser's article it is very fair.
Longfellow was out when I called so I have not seen him.
I am going back to New York to-morrow and I suppose
I shall not return for some time. I shall very probably
pass a year in that city and so finish my medical studies.
You were good enough to say you wanted to read my
African book which I promised to send you, but never
did because I thought to do something better with the
old materials. This I am going to work on now. It will
be published at first only in America I will send you a
copy.

Give my regards to our mutual friends and believe me,

Yours truly,

WINWOOD READE.*

* William Winwood Reade (1838-1875) was a nephew of
Charles Reade and the author of ** The Martyrdom of Man,"
Savage Africa," etc.

19

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

In spite of all this admiration on the part of my
governess for the poetry of Swinburne, Byron con-
tinued to be my pet poet, and I never attempted to
explore for myself the verse of this far greater
singer. Consequently, having so meagre a
knowledge of Swinburne the Poet, I was intimi-
dated by the prospect of dining with Swinburne
the man, and without considering what an honour
had been paid me, I asked my mother to make
some excuse for declining the invitation. I horribly
wanted to go, but I was dominated by the idea
that Swinburne would turn out to be that pet
aversion of Don Juan

An author that's all author, a fellow
In foolscap uniform turned up with ink.

I had lately been reading ' ' Don Juan, ' ' and was
passing through that stage of adulation for my
unsaintly hero which is the prerogative of many
young people of a romantic tendency. I was
never tired of airing emancipated and laudatory
opinions regarding the poetry of Byron, and "Don
Juan " in particular, to my governess. Being a
real lover of poetry, she fostered any tastes in this
direction among such of the girls as cared for poetry
at all ; she was even something of a poet herself.
Far from putting a check on my predilection for
' ' Don Juan ' ' she invited me to dip into the

20

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES

precious " Laus Veneris " myself. So deep and
sincere was her admiration for Swinburne that
' Dolores " and " Faustine " were by no manner
of means anathema to her, nor were they
" forbidden fruit " to me. On the contrary, being
an exceptionally broad-minded woman, she even
encouraged me to read them. Whether I would
have understood them is quite another thing.
However, I had not read them, and my knowledge
of Byron was of course of no use as a substitute,
especially as I had received what I considered a
great ' set back ' when, on venturing to remark to
Mr. Watts that I considered Byron equal to
Shakespeare, he replied : "I dare say he is at
your age." Naturally I thought that perhaps
Swinburne might not prove so kind.

It would be just as well, I reflected, to allow
time enough to elapse for my mind to be
less inadequately equipped with a knowledge of
Swinburne, not to mention a few other poets,
before I went through the ordeal of a dinner with
him. I wondered what fantastic whim could have
induced Fortune to set her wheel moving in my
direction, when just one turn more might have
passed me by, and offered my opportunity to some-
one far more deserving. Had it been possible, I
would ungrudgingly have yielded my place in the

21

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Sun to any one of the scores of Swinburnian enthu-
siasts who were so immeasurably more fitted than
I to profit by such luck. I felt quite sorry that my
poor governess could not change places with me ;
she would not have felt on the horns of a dilemma.

In the end I persuaded my mother to intimate
my intention of calling at The Pines on the same
evening appointed for dining with the two friends,
but after dinner. By going after dinner I
imagined I should be free to talk tete-a-tete to
Mr. Watts, whom I shall henceforth call Walter,
and that my explanation would be accepted in the
right way. I felt he would listen to all I had to
say with correct and real understanding. I was
right in my surmise, for when I arrived at his
house, at about eight-thirty, dinner was over, and
he was alone, waiting to receive me in his charming
dining-room which, contrary to a published
account, is not connected by folding doors with the
adjoining room.

Almost the first object which caught my eye was
the particularly beautiful mantelpiece, and as this
work of art has been very erroneously described by
a distinguished writer, I think it would not be
amiss to give an accurate description of it. The
mantelpiece, which is one of two exactly alike, the
other being in the drawing-room, was made at the

22

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES

oldest pottery in England John Dwight's,
established in 1671. They are made of glazed
stoneware in lovely shades of blue and buff. They
have been admired by every artist who has seen
them, including no less a person than William
Morris, and there are none like them in existence,
as their production, though very original and
charming, was found too expensive to be profitable.

It was a lovely summer evening and Walter
suggested we should stroll out into the garden.
He invited me to partake of the biggest, fattest
gooseberries I had ever seen that were weighing
down the bushes. But I was far too happy and ex-
cited to eat, and our talk which had begun at our
auspicious meeting of the preceding Monday was
resumed with a delightful freedom from restraint.
He received all my small remarks on music and
poetry and books with such patience and interest
that I was sure my explanation with regard to
Swinburne would be quite safe in his keeping.

" Why did you not want to come to dinner ? '
he asked. " I told Swinburne he was to expect
an ardent champion of ' Don Juan,' and I knew
what a refreshing surprise he would receive when
he met it in the person of yourself tell me the
reason why you did not turn up? '

I felt no hesitation in telling him I would rather

23

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

wait until I had read " Poems and Ballads "
before I met the author. He seemed particularly
amused at this explanation, and tried hard to grasp
the meaning behind my words, but I failed to
make him understand why I felt Swinburne would
be aghast at my limitations, and that if I talked to
him about " Don Juan " and omitted to speak of
'' Poems and Ballads ' he would think me a
dreadful little ignoramus.

Instead of taking me seriously and I was
terribly in earnest at the time he treated this
latter portion of my confession as a huge joke.
He laughed so long and so heartily that I won-
dered with dismay what stupid thing I could have
said. I begged him to tell why he was laughing.
He either could not, or would not tell me, but
wanted instead to carry me off and make me
known to Swinburne there and then. But I was
too engrossed in the exhilarating company of my
friend to desire any interruptions. To walk
about in such a charming garden listening to the
conversation of my host was the greatest of treats
to me. It was impossible to be long in his
company without learning something from his rich
scholarship or without becoming aware that his
mind was a veritable storehouse. Far from his
being obtrusively " bookish," there was a sympa-

24

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES

thetic giving of himself that actually made you
imagine he was learning from you, instead of
its being the other way about. That mag-
netic power which attracted so many to him
won from me an instinctive response. It was
delicious to be in this cool, pretty garden sur-
rounded on all sides by big shady trees, its high
walls completely covered with thick ivy. From his
study window overhead, Swinburne could look
out on a perfect forest of green, and enjoy quite
a striking view, for the large trees in the back-
ground conveyed a sense of space and a feeling of
distance which was not so apparent in the
foreground where I stood. We stayed chatting
until it grew dusk. The time had flown so swiftly
that I had no idea how late it was till the arrival
of a maid, sent by my mother to claim me, put
an end to our delightful talk.

When at the garden gate Walter said
!< au revoir " with the assurance that we had many
more such meetings to look forward to, I felt
somewhat reconciled to the approach of the
dreaded Monday which would see me back again
at my desk and lesson-books. As we shook hands, I
told him once again I felt really shy at the idea of
meeting Swinburne, and meant every word I had
said. But he waived all my scruples to one side

25

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

with the remark that he knew I was joking. With
a confident and reassuring smile he concluded :
4 All right then ; it shall be as you wish, but you
need not be afraid to meet Swinburne you are
sure to like him ; if you feel you are not quite ready
to meet him, tell me when you think you are, and
I know at your first meeting all your fears will be
at an end " adding, however, in a tone meant to
be quite reassuring, that " Poems and Ballads '
would be about the last thing their author would
expect me to discuss or talk about to him. He
also said that if I " let myself go "on the amusing
subject of " Don Juan," Swinburne would only
be refreshed.

I returned to school very full of my adventures
of the week-end and brimming over with
enthusiasm at the success of my garden talk.

This was tremendous news to tell my Swin-
burnian governess. She was profoundly interested
in all I had to tell her. Our walk that Monday
was marked with a white stone. In spite of its
being a " French morning," when all one's talk
with her had to be in French, I insisted on walking
with her both to and from the "garden," as we
called the school's recreation ground. Instead of
wishing to " shunt " the exercise of that language
by walking with one of the girls, I opened the ball

FIRST VISIT TO THE PINES

myself by suggesting, " Puis-je marcher avec vous
ce matin, cherie? ' I was bubbling over with
excitement, and in my indifferent French kept up
a flow of reminiscent talk, knowing I was pouring
it all into a ready and sympathetic ear. I can hear
the interested tones of her voice now as she asks
some question : *' Je suppose que M. Swinburne?"
or : " Est-ce que M. Watts vous a dit? '

With such an exceptionally happy start, I was
not going to allow the grass to grow under my
feet in acquiring all the knowledge I could about
Swinburne's poetry. I was fired by the desire to
become acquainted with "Poems and Ballads," and
for a year in the interval of lessons I read nearly
everything of Swinburne's I could lay hands on. I
was determined when I met him that he should
not find me the proverbial " Miss " of Byronic
satire, who " always smells of bread and butter."

Swinburne at this time had just completed "The
Tale of Balen," and Walter, thinking it would
please me to see the handwriting of the Bard (as
A. C. S. was often styled and as I shall often style
him) gave me the MS. to read. Perceiving also that
my writing was clear enough to prove " a bit of
fat " for the printers, he asked me to make a copy
of Swinburne's MS., so that my copy could go to
be set up in type.

27

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

This was the first occasion that my eyes lighted on
the familiar blue paper on which Swinburne
invariably wrote. As I transferred his words to
my foolscap I noticed how very perfect the MS.
was : there were hardly any revisions : it seemed
to me that the whole long poem must have simply
flowed from his pen. But what struck me most
was the singular boyishness of the handwriting,
which despite its appearance of youth, was well-
formed and particularly characteristic. One could
imagine it to be the writing of a schoolboy of
thirteen or fourteen, so distinct and easy to read
was every word. Every up-stroke and down-
stroke of his beautifully neat letters suggested the
firm writing of a boy with the mechanism of mind
and body in perfect order.

How proud I felt to be given this task, and
very carefully did I copy the great poet's words
in my big round hand, never dreaming as I
did so that one day I myself would play my
part in the home life of these two inseparable
companions.

But perhaps even as I copied the first stanza of
" Balen, 7 ' some fairy knew that years later I would
be literally dancing to its measure in the company
of him who wrote it.

23

CHAPTER II

EARLY IMPRESSIONS

AFTER this garden-talk Walter and I were con-
stantly in each other's society and I was so often a
visitor to The Pines that my encounters with
Swinburne were frequent. I would meet him in
the hall or the passages, and although he did not
appear to see me, he would stand like a sentinel
while I passed ; his arms stiff against his sides, with
the palms presented outwards, gave him a curiously
mechanical appearance as of a toy-soldier. On
these occasions I felt somewhat Overawed, for
Swinburne would look at me with such a wondering
look, as much as to say " Who are you, and what
are you doing here?" Then he would bow very
courteously, and disappear into his room.

Late one afternoon in winter when the snow
was on the ground and all was cold and dreary
outside, I happened to be passing his room, and

29

looking in upon him through the half -open door, I
saw him seated by the fire with a book in his hand.
He was laughing over something he was reading
and gave little gurgles of delight. It all looked
so delightfully cosy, with the curtains drawn,
the big fire burning, and Swinburne sitting near it,
looking so blithe and gay, that, wondering what
he had found in the book to make him feel so
jolly, I thought, for a moment, I must go in and
ask him. Of course I did not go in, but I went
downstairs and told Walter I felt tempted to do
so. He seemed quite pleased, and suggested that
the next day Swinburne and I should make our
first salutation. Accordingly, the following after-
noon Walter took me upstairs into the Bard's
sanctum and there at last we became known to each
other.

Swinburne was reading when we came into the
room, and seeing who had entered, he laid the book
aside, face downwards, and came forward with
extended hand to meet me.

One might have supposed that my former
encounters would have made my face somewhat
familiar to him, since all the details of his
physiognomy were indelibly stamped on my mental
vision. But it was not so ; he appeared to be
meeting me for the first time. As he gave me one

so

EARLY IMPRESSIONS

of his old-world bows, I felt he really had never
noticed me before that day. The poet then drew
forward a chair, and with somewhat elaborate
politeness, invited me to sit down. Then from
the depths of a dark recess in a corner he drew forth
a wonderful-looking volume he must have known
just where to put his hand on it even in the dark,
for the room was full of shadows, and illuminated
only by candles. He hugged it gleefully to him,
and in a boyish ringing voice exclaimed : " Now I
am going to show you something that will surprise
you. I wager you've never seen such a book as
this." And indeed it was a most remarkable book,
the like of which I had never seen before.

He brought his chair close to mine, and opening
a page at random, he pointed to the most extra-
ordinary specimen of the feathered tribe. As far
as the body and beak were concerned, this " bird '
did not belie its name, but the creature appeared
to possess a neck far more like that of a giraffe
than anything else. The head was so curious, too,
and in its eye was a most audacious twinkle.
Swinburne pointed to this impossible neck with
delight, and excitedly asked, " Did you ever see
such a bird as that in your life? ' He spoke in
what I can only describe as an angelically kinder-
garten manner. I thought that perhaps he had

31

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

under-estimated my age by a decade, for, ignorant
of the rarity and antiquarian interest of the book I
imagined that it was a book for children of tender
years, for whose delectation the poet was wont
to exhibit it. As he obviously expected me to
reply in equally emphatic language, I replied that
I certainly had never seen such a queer-looking
bird before, and never dreamed such a one had
even existed. " But is it really supposed to be a
bird ?" I asked.

" Oh, yes," said Swinburne, very earnestly. " I
never for moment hazarded such a doubt,"

I had to believe it then. But noticing there was
a verse underneath the picture which might give
me a key to the riddle, I turned to the page again
and tried to read it. This was beyond me, for the
type in which it was written was almost impossible
for me to decipher. I asked Swinburne to read
it to me : he instantly complied, and in the most
amusing rhyme it is possible to imagine, I was
given the description and veritable history of his
mysterious " bird." The book was made up of
the queerest creatures of natural history, and the
next page revealed yet another weird specimen
which made me know at once that Swinburne had
been playing a practical joke on me in allowing me
to imagine in the first instance that the animals

32

EARLY IMPRESSIONS

illustrated were like anything in heaven or on
earth.

In the most ingratiating manner he proceeded
to show me what professed to be a cat. The
Bard's face was wreathed in smiles as he exclaimed,
" Oh, but do look at this. What a dear creature ! "

The " dear creature " had a human face, and
rather an ugly face, too, I thought. Being anxious
to know if this four-footed specimen of creation
was of the male or female gender, I again
requested Swinburne to read from the verse under-
neath. He was overjoyed to do so, but unfortu-
nately we failed to arrive at any definite conclusion
although this rhymed description was even
funnier than the one about the " bird." When I
suggested that this ambiguous grimalkin was
possibly a woman, Swinburne was quite ready to
fall in with my idea, and laughingly said, "Ah,
you are right ; yes, of course, it's pretty certain
to be a woman."

The volume containing these pictures was really
a fragment of a much larger book, and one of the
very earliest illustrated volumes ever printed. I
think Swinburne said it was about four hundred
years old. I am sorry to say I cannot remember
its name. Perhaps some of my readers will
identify ft from my description. I may add that
c 33

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

the pictures included a man-headed serpent of
repellent visage, a mermaid with a smiling coun-
tenance, sirens of alluring appearance, grotesque
camels and impossibly-formed monkeys. Each
creature was the subject of a descriptive stanza so
ludicrous that it was difficult for Swinburne to
read it without laughing outright.

One or two of the pages were torn here and
there. Supposing it might have been the
youthful Algernon who had mutilated them, I
enquired if he had done so when he was a little boy.

He looked quite pained, and said he was thank-
ful he had not committed such a heinous offence,
but he suspected that some naughty little child
hundreds and hundreds of years ago was the culprit.

I really think Swinburne prized this blackletter
fragment more than any other book in his valuable
library. He treated it with a reverence which did
not escape my notice. I could see he was very
nervous at my handling it, and preferred to turn
the leaves himself. He said in a touching voice,
full of quiet pathos, " My dear mother gave me
this book."

By this time the feeling of shyness and awe with
which the poet had hitherto inspired me was dis-
pelled. I began to feel quite at home in his
company, and thoroughly at my ease. I wanted

34

EARLY IMPRESSIONS

to tell him I had read " The Tale of Balen," and
when there was a pause in the conversation, I told
him how much I had enjoyed reading this poem.
He seemed delighted to hear me say so, and said :
" Have you though? I am very pleased you like
it."

Knowing he was a Northumbrian, I thought
perhaps he might be interested to hear I knew
well the rugged beauties of Northumberland, and
was familiar with that part of the coast in which
" Balen " is laid. When I told him this, he was
still more delighted. But when I proceeded to
add that I, too, was a Northumbrian, and was born
and had spent my early childhood by the sea
within twenty miles of Capheaton, he was quite
astonished, and a French locution, ever afterwards
to be associated in my mind with him, escaped
from his lips. Looking hard at me out of those
wonderful eyes, he ejaculated two or three times
the word " Tiens I "

On a table at my elbow near where I was
sitting, I could read the title of the book he had
been reading when we came in. It was " Uncle
Bernac " by Conan Doyle. Taking the volume
up, I asked Swinburne if it was exciting and if he
had ever read " The Adventures of Sherlock
Holmes."

35

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

He ignored my first question, but answered
the second by repeating in large capitals,
" HAVE I READ ' THE ADVENTURES OF
SHERLOCK HOLMES ' ? RATHER ! Ask
Walter." The two friends exchanged glances,
and loud guffaws followed the torrent of remini-
scent talk regarding the miraculous intuitive and
deductive powers of the epoch-making detective,
whom the poet considered a " marvellous man,"
and pronounced a " great lark." It seems that
in common with nearly every schoolboy in the
kingdom, as well as thousands of people of both
sexes who are no longer at school, he had revelled
vicariously in the experiences of his " marvellous"
friend. He told me he had read every adventure
as they appeared in the Strand Magazine, and
that he liked nothing better than a good detective
story ; the more thrilling the better he liked it. I
said I had gone through the same phase myself,
and had read and enjoyed most of the "Adven-
tures." Then turning to me he enquired : "But
have you read ' The Sign of Four,' and * A
Study in Scarlet? ' I warrant these two stories
will not disappoint you, and will provide you with
all the 'thrills ' you want."

I told him I had not done so, but, if they were
half as interesting as some of Sherlock Holmes'

36

EARLY IMPRESSIONS

dventures, I would certainly take his advice and
read them.

I never imagined that my answer in the
negative would result in my becoming the possessor
of these books in a most charming way.

At the conclusion of my delightful little visit,
Swinburne urged me to come as often as I liked
to " look at the animal book," and told me that
when I came again he would show me some of his
rare first editions of the Dramatists. I assured
him I would soon avail myself of his invitation,
and with another gracious bow at departure, and a
cordial hand-shake, we bade each other good after-
noon and " au revoir." I was charmed with him,
and when Walter and I went downstairs I told
him that never again should I be nervous with
Swinburne.

Looking over that book with him, I felt that we
were contemporaries, and that I had spent the
afternoon in the company of a brilliant, intellectual
and enthusiastic boy, so young was he in heart
and spirit. He looked so full of life and vigour
that one forgot his years, such light was in his
eyes, such warmth in his smile, and he seemed so
blissfully happy, surrounded by his thousands of
books which lined the room from floor to ceiling.

This lithe, energetic man of genius literally

37

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

radiated Happiness. His whole environment spoke
of the peace of mind and harmony of life which had
been his from the moment he had set foot within
The Pines.

The almost adoring expression which came into
Swinburne's eyes when they looked at Walter
made me realize how deeply and gratefully con-
scious he was of the incalculable blessing the
magnetic presence of his friend had been to him
all the happy years he had spent under his roof.
Owing to Walter's vigilance and his interposition
between the poet and the interfering prose of life
which would have spelt damnation to Swinburne's
art and temperament the latter was enabled to
bring forth his later immortal works. In this
atmosphere of repose and freedom from worry, one
felt that Time had nothing to do with him, and that
he might go on living and working for ever.

Walter's self-effacement surprised me then and
astonished me later. The tender solicitude and
unremitting care which he lavished upon Swin-
burne, heedless of his own sacrifice of strength and
leisure for artistic achievement so long as he
furthered the welfare of " the dear fellow," as he
sometimes called the Bard, are unparalleled in the
annals of literary friendships.

38

CHAPTER III

" THAT ' LIMBER ELF '

FOR some time I had had access to Walter's library,
a literary workshop that contained upwards of
eight thousand volumes. Books were everywhere,
towering from floor to ceiling ; they filled immense
bookcases and little bookcases, and occupied every
table and chair in the room and nearly all the
available floor-space besides. The effect of this
mountain of tomes all around me was somewhat
staggering until I got used to it, then it actually
grew upon me, and I became so accustomed to the
delightful disorder that I was quite miserable when
the day came for tidying up. All you had to
do was to stand in the middle of it all, and
after surveying it calmly, shut your eyes,
and then make a random bee-line with your
finger for a book and trust that this childish
method of procedure would bring you the luck

39

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

of " Little Jack Horner " when he pulled out a
plum.

This was invariably my habit when let loose
among Walter's books, and 1 it nearly always
brought a plum to me.

So lucky was I in hitting upon some unusual
volume amidst this heterogeneous collection that I
earned for myself the sobriquet of " limber elf."
Walter declared this almost uncanny method or
rather want of method so productive of special
" finds ' which I never set out to obtain
reminded him of the child in Coleridge's
" Christabel "-

A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks.

One day I lighted on a volume which instantly
riveted me. I knew at once that I had " struck
oil " and had stumbled across something of more
than common interest.

It was a presentation book to Walter from
Swinburne, and at the beginning was written in
the poet's handwriting a sonnet on Massinger.
And delightful discovery this was a book of
plays, and I loved reading plays. I looked

40

" THAT LIMBER ELF '

eagerly through it to find " A New Way to
Pay Old Debts," the name of which I knew
well. Ever since hearing this delightful title at
school during one of our weekly lectures on litera-
ture, I had wanted to read this play, but so far I
had never had an opportunity of doing so. I was
naturally overjoyed to see it here in print before
my eyes, and immediately began to devour it.
So interested did I become in its pages that I
was unaware of the presence of Walter at my
elbow. His " What has that ' limber elf ' got
hold of now?" brought me back to my surround-
ings. He was highly amused at my seizing upon
this particular book among the thousands in the
room. Handing him the volume that had so
absorbed me, I asked him to tell me about it, for
I was anxious to know why Swinburne had written
this sonnet in his inscribed copy. Latterly I had
heard so much about Swinburne's interesting
quartos that I was considerably puzzled and wanted
to know just exactly wEat they were. Walter did
not at once answer my question, but told me to
take care of the Massinger while he hunted round
himself in order to show me the other copies of
Elizabethan plays which Swinburne had given him.
He soon discovered some others I forget now
which they were, though I know there was a Ben

41

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Jonson, but I remember that in each Swinburne
had written a eulogistic and impassioned sonnet
addressed to the author and redolent of intense
hero-worship.

Then Walter told me about his friend's
adoration of the Elizabethan dramatists, and his
profound knowledge on the subject, and prepared
me for the feast that was awaiting me when I went
to see the poet's collection of first editions.

This made me even more eager to finish reading
"A New Way to Pay Old Debts," which the
entrance of Walter had interrupted. I found the
play so intensely interesting that I was impatient
to go on with it, so after he had carefully put away
the other plays in a place of safety, he left me to
continue my fascinating pursuit.

Perhaps I may be excused for telling a story of
my school days, bearing on Massinger's famous
play.

Every time I was in arrears over my monthly
debts to the school fine-box the title of this play
would roll glibly off my tongue. It became a sort
of by- word in my mouth, for I delighted in the
very sound of the words which I used on every
pretext and I detested to pay up. My fines far

42

" THAT < LIMBER ELF '

exceeded those of any of the other girls, and when
my "bad marks," which cost the large sum of a
penny each, were added up at the beginning of
every month, I never had enough money to pay
in full. Then out would come this very appro-
priate title.

To get out of the difficulty I would ask to have
the debt "carried over ' to the next month.
My governess, who was really quite fond of me,
never insisted on my paying up to the last fraction,
or thereby I should have been bereft of pocket-
money for the whole of the ensuing month.
According to what sort of temper she happened to
be in at the time, she would allow me to pay so
much " on account." My usual average was about
two or three "bad marks" a day, and at the
end of one term I was asked, I remember, to pay
my arrears to the tune of eighteen shillings ! This
" account rendered " scared me; I had not such
a sum in my possession. Nothing daunted, how-
ever, I suggested that it should be put down in the
school bill as "drawing materials." I was dis-
appointed that my suggestion did not meet with
approval. My governess pretended to be shocked
at such a Machiavellian scheme. But as she was
in a very sweet mood (the end of the term
accounting for this, no doubt) I felt a little

43

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

wheedling on my part would do no harm. Three
minutes of this treatment proved so effective that it
brought forth two excellent results. My fine was
reduced to half, and my soft-hearted governess
confessed that she considered I had not really
deserved any more fines than some of the girls who
only had to pay nine shillings for the whole term.

The reading of Massinger's play marked my
introduction to the Elizabethan dramatists. When
I reflected that Swinburne had embarked with
intense enthusiasm on the study of the Elizabethan
dramatic poets at the time of his early school days
or as he expressed it to me later, " when I was
a kid at Eton" and had pursued the study with
ardour and energy ever since, it made me quite
angry to think how I had been encouraged to read
Racine and Moliere, while the early English play-
wrights were known to me by name only.

Of course I could only suppose the French
dramatists were convenable for the '" English
Meess," while the old English dramatists were not
considered fit reading for the " young person."
However, I started making up for lost time, and
fortified by the perusal of Massinger's comedy, I
felt I could now face Swinburne with more con-

44

" THAT LIMBER ELF '

fidence, as I had at least made a start with the
Elizabethans. A few days afterwards I met him
on the door-step going out of the house on his walk
to Wimbledon. Although I expected he had by
this time forgotten all about me, I was agreeably
surprised to find he had not done so.

I reminded him of his promise to show me his
quartos. In awaiting his answer, I was not at
all sure that he would remember having said any-
thing about such a favour.

But he had not forgotten, and said he would be
pleased to see me that very afternoon. For my
part I looked forward to visiting him again with
a very keen pleasure.

Swinburne's time for receiving visitors was
always in the afternoon about four, so without his
fixing the time, I knew I had to present myself
at that hour.

There is many a slip between the cup and the lip,
and I was astonished soon after lunch to receive
this telegram from Walter: "Postpone visit
until to-morrow." The telegram was followed in
the evening by a rather enigmatic lettter, telling
me that Swinburne had changed his mind and
preferred my going the next day, " as something
he is giving you has not arrived, but is certain to be
there if you will call at 4-30 to-morrow afternoon."

45

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Needless to say, I was full of curiosity, and
arrived the next day long before the appointed
time, bent on hearing all about it from Walter.
Although I questioned him, as he declared, " like
an Old Bailey barrister," I could get nothing out
of him. My reiterated entreaties for enlighten-
ment only produced repeated shakes of the head
from left to right indicating " No," and the
answer, " I promised Swinburne I would not tell
you." Not another word on the subject could
I drag from him. The longer I questioned him,
the more decided became the head-shaking,
and the merrier and more prolonged grew his
chuckles. He seemed positively to enjoy my
suspense. His remonstrance, " Now, Serjeant
Ballantyne, don't you look at me like that " (as I
gave him a final glance full of withering reproach),
induced me to accept the inevitable and abandon
any further attempts at cross-questioning. I had
perforce to possess my soul in patience until I
could learn the truth from the lips of Swinburne.
I had not long to wait.

We had changed the subject and were talking of
other things, when Swinburne himself appeared
on the threshold. He came forward, and in a
manner most cordial and gracious shook me warmly
by the hand, and, signalling me to follow him, led

46

" THAT < LIMBER ELF '

the way upstairs to his sanctum. Without any
preliminary talk, or explanation of the slightest
kind, he pointed to a neat little case of books on
the mantelpiece. Of course I was nonplussed.
Swinburne never uttered a word, but continued to
wave his hand towards the books without speaking
unless the soft hilarious whistle he emitted, in
low staccato snatches, could be designated a form
of speech, and for a moment or two I did not know
what to say or do. But looking up for an instant
from the books to his face, I understood from his
dancing eyes and laughing expression the nature
of " the secret." He had anticipated my wishes
and procured from his bookseller at Wimbledon
the very fiction I said I wanted. The books
included two volumes of " The Adventures of
Sherlock Holmes," " Rodney Stone," " A Study
in Scarlet," and " The Sign of Four." Then it
appeared that Swinburne had made Walter
promise I should be kept in the dark until the
right moment came, and that he should be the
one to tell me that the non-arrival of the books at
the promised time was the reason of the postpone-
ment of my visit.

This little incident initiated me into Swinburne's
naive and child-like methods of working out any
little scheme. Charming traits of character of this

47

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

kind were so frequently peeping out from him that
it was difficult to think of him as the great poet
whom all recognised as a King of Song. But it was
only at first that it was puzzling, and before long I
appreciated his boyish ways as characteristic of a
personality which had all the transparency and
poetic qualities of an elfin child who was at the same
time a superlatively-gifted man.

The child-side of Swinburne appealed very
strongly to Walter, who understood his curiously
complex nature as did no other living being. I
remember that once when, soon after his
companion's death, I spoke of it to him, a far-away
look of wistful tenderness came into his face.
While the tears gathered in his eyes at the recollec-
tion, he turned to me and said :

" Dear Algernon, he was the simplest and
noblest-minded creature in the world, by far
the greatest poet, and one of the most lovable men
I ever knew."

48

CHAPTER IV

SWINBURNE AS A BIBLIOPHILE

IT would be difficult to imagine a greater contrast
between the idiosyncrasies of two men living under
the same roof than that presented by the difference
between Swinburne's tidy retreat upstairs and
Walter's untidy workroom downstairs.

Coming direct from one into the other was
positively startling, the difference being so marked
as to suggest a sudden change from one country
to another, such as genii could bring about in fairy
tales.

I was conscious of a feeling of exaltation and
repose in Swinburne's surroundings. The stillness
and the tidiness had the quieting effect on the
nerves that one feels on entering a cool cathedral
on a hot day. The very aspect of the room
breathed forth the spirit of its occupant's lofty
purpose in life.

D 49

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Passionate book-lover that he was, he had
arranged his treasures very carefully. Everything
was in its place. At a first glance the room
seemed to contain little besides books, but however
much they might monopolise one's attention, it
was impossible not to notice Swinburne's duster.
It was so very obtrusive that you wondered why
the back of a cane-seated Empire chair was chosen
for the display of the red and yellow-checked affair
which hung over it. But there it was, an object of
undignified importance, gaily disporting itself
almost in the middle of the room. I learned
that it was one of the poet's little fads to have his
own special duster always in sight, and easily got
at whenever he had occasion to use it. And this
was very often. He had a horror of even touching
a dusty book, so, to be sure his library was kept
in apple-pie order, he took the precaution of
looking after his books himself. If he wanted
to show you any particular book, he would first of
all see that not a speck was on it. I can see him
now, duster in hand, going carefully over the edges
and cover to satisfy himself that all was as it should
be before placing the volume in your hands. From
that day, whenever I happened to enter his room,
until the day he lay dying in this same room
in which I now write these lines, I always saw

50

SWINBURNE AS A BIBLIOPHILE

Swinburne's homely duster spread out in the funny
.way I have described.

The overflow of books which could not gain
admittance to his shelves, found sanctuary on the
wide sofa near the window, the same sofa on which
Swinburne rested and sometimes slept in his Great
James Street days. It was an uncommonly long
sofa, and filled more than half one side of
the room not taken up by bookcases. But at The
Pines, in my time, he never used it to rest on ; it
was reserved solely for the repose of books, which
were piled high on it from end to end, not a
square inch being available for a seat.

He would invariably sit on an easy chair with a
circular back decorated with gold, the arms
of which terminated in gold-covered rams' heads.
There were two of these chairs in Tiis study,
and on the occasion of which I speak he pulled
one out of a corner and invited me to sit
on it, courteously remarking that he knew it to
be comfortable. He himself remained standing,
hovering over the writing-table, with fluttering
hands and breathing audibly in an excited way.
And now, with a look absolutely radiating with
pride of possession, he turned my attention to a
bundle of very old and rather shabby-looking
books.

51

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

I knew these must be the precious quartos of
first editions of the Dramatists, and when he took
up one to inspect it before pointing out its manifold
beauties to me, he uttered a rapturous "Ah!" as
if he were looking at it for the first time and had
discovered something new in it he had not noticed
before. The handling of the volume seemed to
afford him such delight that he could not refrain
from making curious little sounds, as if his mouth
were watering in anticipation of the succulent
flavour of a peach. He was in no haste for me to
inspect it, but turned to another and yet another
volume over which he repeated the same perform-
ance, for all the world like a connoisseur, who,
in order to enjoy the full flavour of a wine,
inhales the bbuquet first. Wihile the poet was
inarticulately ecstasising, I was able to take a
cursory glance at some of the volumes, in the hope
that I might find a Massinger among them. I was
becoming nervous at the rather long silence and
wondered when Swinburne would break it.

How thankful I was I had a topic all ready, and
could land on safe ground, and I began by telling
him I had read "A New Way to Pay Old Debts."
The news acted like a charm. I could not have
hit upon a happier announcement, for, at the mere
mention of this comedy, he became most animated,

SWINBURNE AS A BIBLIOPHILE

and his words poured forth like a torrent. He
now brought forward his treasures with all the
delight of a schoolboy showing his prizes.

With delicious naivete he immediately jumped
to the conclusion that I was an ardent student of
the Elizabethan Dramatists. He took it for
granted I had actually read all sorts of Elizabethan
plays and shared his taste for them.

Poor Swinburne, child-like and simple in many
ways, was especially so in this one. He could not
conceive that one did not take his point of view
about everything. Afterwards, when I saw him
nearly every day and came to know him better, the
mere mention by me of a book or a poem with
which he was familiar and known to me perhaps
only by name was quite sufficient for him to
attribute to me a far greater knowledge of it than
I actually possessed. I can't help smiling now
when I think of it.

As he went on expatiating his enthusiasm grow-
ing with every play to which he called my attention
I began to repent of my first rash admission. I
know next to nothing of these Elizabethans
or their plays, and not without difficulty could
I have made out a line of the old-world type
in which some of them were printed. With a
rapt look he gazed upon this archaic typography,

53

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

and as he tapped the page lovingly with his finger,
he ejaculated, "Ah ! Ah !" in a soft laughing tone
as he raised his eyes to the ceiling. It was
delightful to see him thus, but I felt instinctively
the radiant look would at once vanish from his face
if I told him that his idols were strangers to me. I
had not the heart to disillusionise Eim, and I
refrained from doing so.

Taking my courage in both hands I made an
attempt to turn the discussion into another
channel. My attempt did not meet with the
success I thought it deserved. Swinburne looked at
me with a shocked expression. What had aroused
his indignation I did not discover till afterwards.
Walter subsequently explained to me that if there
was a thing in the world more than another that
nettled the poet it was to have his conversation
interrupted especially if he happened to be
holding forth on a favourite topic. On this
occasion Swinburne's chivalry saved me from
any spoken reproof, and I proceeded quite
airily to talk about our friend Lady Archibald
Campbell's production of " The Faithful Shep-
herdesse," in Coombe Wood, wherein she enacted
the part of Perigot. But here again I was fated
to upset the equanimity of my friend. I had
alluded to the play as by " Beaumont and

54

SWINBURNE AS A BIBLIOPHILE

Fletcher." The mention of the word Beaumont
seemed to affect Swinburne as though one had
offered him a personal insult. He glared, he
shrugged his shoulders in a panic-stricken sort of
way as one who despaired of the ignorance of the
world. "Fletcher onlyl" he declared with
tremendous emphasis. " Beaumont never wrote
a line of it ! ' I dare not ask him how I was
expected to know that ; Beaumont and Fletcher
were to me as inseparable as Marshall and
Snelgrove or Darby and Joan.

It was curious to notice how a literary lapse of
this kind roused Swinburne to fury. To me the
point did not seem to matter much one way or
the other. When betrayed into these little gusts
of ill-temper in my presence, he was almost imme-
diately penitent, and his contrition was as
wonderful an expression of himself as had been his
annoyance. After a while he began to talk quite
amicably and reasonably about John Fletcher. He
told me that when he went for his morning walk
on the Common he always felt that Fletcher had
once traversed the same spaces. He explained
that Fletcher had lived for some time at Fulham
Palace ; that there was contemporary evidence to
show that the dramatist had often walked about
the Wimbledon stretches of woodland while

55

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

staying at the Palace on the other side of
the .water, and that it was while wandering
in Richmond Forest that he conceived the idea
of " The Faithful Shepherdesse." " Ah! " he
added brightly, " who knows but what the notion
struck him as he passed by Lady Archie's delightful
place? "

This talk about Fletcher reminded me that some
time previously I had attended a rehearsal by some
enthusiastic amateurs of " The Two Noble
Kinsmen." I waited until the poet had come to
a full stop before venturing to mention this
circumstance. Here at all events I had struck a
sympathetic chord. His face lighted up wonder-
fully. He went over to the little mountain of
books lying on the table.

"Ah! " he exclaimed with childish delight,
" I will read you something from 6 The Two
Noble Kinsmen.' "

But before the reading began a certain ritual
had to be observed. The twilight was upon us. The
poet lighted the three candles which always stood
on his mantelpiece in three separate candlesticks.
He hated gas as an illuminant though he was
enthusiastic about the gas stove which was fixed
in his bedroom fire-place a contrivance he never
attempted to light himself. Walter and I had

56

SWINBURNE AS A BIBLIOPHILE

often discussed the idea of installing electric light
fittings to resemble candles. Perhaps he might
have " taken to " the innovation. Perhaps not.
In any case the idea was never carried out, and
to the end of his days, when daylight began to
fade, Swinburne read or wrote by the light of his
three candles. His method of lighting was a fear-
some process. On the landing outside his sitting-
room door was an open gas-jet. He took one
candlestick and lighted the candle at it, the grease
dropping from it the while in unrestrained abandon.
He returned to his room, the weapon in his hand
still spluttering fat, and having placed the candle
on the table, he lighted the other two from it.
Then, with ceremonial precision, he arranged the
three candles quite close together, almost touching
each other. This light he kept behind him as
he read. He seemed to know to a nicety the exact
spot from which the light would be most effectively
diffused, for the little circle of burning wicks
afforded the sole illumination in his rather big
study. While the soft rays from behind him were
sufficient to make clear to him the printed page,
they cast eerie shadows on the ceiling and threw
wonderful high lights on the pictures and mirrors.
It struck me that many men, even poets, would
have had either two or four candles in compliment

57

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

to an unpleasant superstition by which three
candles (possibly because there were three crosses
at Calvary) are an omen of ill-luck. Whether or
not Swinburne had ever thought of this super-
stition, the use of three candles was quite
in keeping with his beliefs or misbeliefs.

But all my speculation about the superstition
ceased when in mingled twilight and candlelight
the poet began to read the passages in " The Two
Noble Kinsmen " leading up to the fight between
Palamon and Arcite.

There was a weird and subtle charm about
Swinburne's delivery of the poetry that he loved.
He had none of the arts or affectations of the
elocutionist. There were indeed qualities in his
method which the elocutionist would decry as
unsound and eccentric. The fact, however,
remains that his delivery captured the imagination
of the hearer, where the art of the elocutionist
left him cold. His methods may have been
" unsound " ; they were certainly effective.
When I took leave of him after that memorable
recital, it was with the sensation of one who had
been hypnotised.

What, I wondered, made the Swinburne reading
of an old dramatist so oddly arresting whereas
his readings about Mrs. Gamp and others in the

58

SWINBURNE AS A BIBLIOPHILE

Dickens gallery was so marred by peculiarities
of voice and manner as to be almost unpleasant?
With the qualities of the Dickens recitals I shall
deal in a future chapter. The explanation is prob-
ably something like this : in Dickens he was most
of all concerned with impersonation. He acted
or thought that he acted the parts of the various
characters. Nature had not endowed him with the
equipment for accomplishing this ; so the perform-
ance left much to be desired. But when it came
to giving voice to the words of an old dramatist
he was no longer concerned with conveying the
meaning to his audience. He surrendered himself
completely to the rhythmic laws of verse. He
rendered the music, not the meaning of the
dramatist, and so it happened that while his
rendering of Charles Dickens might be voted
rather distressing, his reading of an act by John
Fletcher arrested and fascinated the hearer.

59

CHAPTER V

SWINBURNE WHEN FIRST I KNEW HIM

EVEN when I knew Swinburne only by fleeting
glimpses, the personality of the poet had struck
me as something quite out of the ordinary.

To begin with, he looked what we call
" a celebrity." Having once seen him, much less
met him, no one could fail to understand he had
come into contact with a very extraordinary being,
for certain characteristics removed Swinburne
definitely outside the pale of ordinary mortals.
Had I met him for the first time in the street
or in a room, and not knowing he was Swinburne,
had been asked to guess what manner of man
he was by profession, I should unhesitatingly
at the first glance have said " Poet." A second

X

guess might have been " Musician." This was
not because he possessed the frenzied mane of hair
which is such a valuable asset to a pianist, for

60

BUST OF A. C. SWINBURNE BY DRESSI.ER

SWINBURNE WHEN FIRST I KNEW HIM

when I first saw Swinburne his head was bald on
top, his hair being a tawny-grey in colour. His
face, however, reminded me of Paderewski. Both
men possessed brilliant, expressive eyes, the same
steady, intent gaze, and the same air of poetic
mystery. Oddly enough, the hair on the temples
and at the nape of the neck was rather thick, and
was much ruddier than his other locks, indicating
clearly that in his youth Swinburne had possessed
red hair. His small beard and moustache,
although streaked with grey, gave the same
suggestion of warm colour.

Often when he sat opposite me at meals I would
mentally frame Swinburne's head in the pianist's
wealth of copper-coloured hair and the resemblance
between them would then become positively
surprising. But his hair had never been copper-
coloured. When his cousin first showed me a
lock of Algernon's hair, I could hardly believe
such a colour could have grown on a human head.
It was not a bit like the hair so often described as
" the sort Titian would have loved to paint " ; it
was just a fiery red.

His eyes were what specially attracted me.
They were wonderful, and by far the best feature
of his face. If the eye is the window of the soul,
truly the eyes of Swinburne spoke for him. I

61

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

would look at him long and searchingly across the
table to try to ascertain what colour they really
were. Sometimes they would look soft and tender
enough to suggest pansies, at other moments they
seemed to be greyish green ; and, again, I would
think they must be blue. At last I came to the
conclusion that they were hazel. The peculiar
speckles in them made them marvellously
expressive. I have seen them dance and catch fire,
according to his various moods. When he read
aloud any passage requiring dramatic emphasis,
these speckles would grow more radiant and
quiver with every cadence of his rather high-
pitched voice.

Taking it for granted that Swinburne possessed
a superabundance of hair as a young man,
and wore it in the manner of " Struwwelpeter,"
I cannot agree with those who think that he
possessed a head too big for his body. I would
have been the first to have noticed any abnormality
of this sort, had it existed. In the days when his
figure was slender and boyish, the top-heavy look
with which he is credited was no doubt due to the
thick hair standing out bush-like from both sides
of his head.

Had Nature given Swinburne a body worthy of
his mental gifts, he would have been better looking

62

SWINBURNE WHEN FIRST I KNEW HIM

than the Apollo Belvedere. But it was other-
wise decreed. His facial features were remarkably
good, but his figure was against him. He would
have been handsome if he had been a few inches
taller and his figure good. But he was short, and
his shoulders were far too sloping.

His physical imperfections had become less
noticeable when I knew him, for he had " filled
out ' since the days of " Dolores ' and
" Chastelard," and his limbs, unusually muscular,
for a man of his size, had taken on a more solid
look.

His hands were not beautiful or well-shaped,
and they were not particularly small. I would
often look at his rather podgy digits and prosaic
finger nails, and compare them with Walter's
long, tapering fingers and filbert-shaped nails.
Walter's hand often served Rossetti for a model
when the artist was painting one of his celebrated
" half lengths," but one had to think of the work
it did before one could be interested in Swinburne's
hand. I feel called upon to make these obser-
vations because a brilliant essayist wrote in a
leading review of Swinburne's hands and feet as
though they were almost fairy-like.

A propos de bottes I had ample opportunity for
knowing a good deal about the footwear of the

63

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Housemates. The same bootmaker made for both
of them. There was but little difference in size,
Swinburne's feet being a trifle larger than
Walter's. The poet took what in the trade is
called " an eight and a half," so that to write of his
" tiny feet " is absurd. Swinburne had his boots
made of calf leather while Walter preferred a soft
kid. Often when I was out walking with Walter
I would notice that he had on a pair of calf boots.
I would say, " You've got Swinburne's boots on
again. Oh dear! Why will you not look? '
Walter would laughingly reply, "And the joke of
it is the poor boy can't get his feet into a pair of
mine."

In the days of his young manhood, Swinburne
may or may not have evinced a partiality for fine
clothes, but I am sure his good sense never allowed
him to adopt any sort of eccentricity of attire.
The poet of tradition and the stage has always
something of the guy about his clothing. Kj
wears a pair of rusty black trousers, baggy at the
knees, a nondescript waistcoat, and a shabby
velveteen coat surmounted by a very low turned-
down collar with a huge bow under it. His hair
is long, and his hat is an umbrageous sombrero.

Swinburne's attire, as I observed it, flatly
contradicted this caricature. He took great pains

64

SWINBURNE WHEN FIRST I KNEW HIM

to avoid advertising his metier. He did not wear
his hair long ; it only reached the nape of his neck,
and the little he possessed was often cut by the
barber.

He was always very plainly dressed, and I never
saw him wearing any other sort of tie than a plain
black silk one. At home, and sitting r.estfully in
his chair with a book, he offered no mark for the
caricaturist. But outside, when he had donned his
wideawake, he somehow looked eccentric. For
one thing he braced his trousers too high ; in his
absence of mind, he would pull them above the
ankles, showing several inches of white sock.
Furthermore, he had a curious prancing gait, and
his deliberate way of flinging out his feet before
him as he trod the ground reminded one of a
dancing-master or a soldier doing tfie goose-step.

With his head thrown stiffly back and his body
almost rigid from the waist upwards, Swinburne
out-of-doors seemed to me an individual distinct
from the Swinburne at home. Owing perhaps
to his deafness, he was averse from meeting even
his friends out of doors. He hated to come across
them suddenly, and even Walter or I, when we
happened to meet him, refrained from taking the
slightest notice of him as we passed. Often we
would meet him face to face as he was coming
B 65

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

down or we were going up the Hill, or vice versa.
But he would walk past us totally oblivious of our
proximity. It certainly was not because he was
short-sighted, for he had perfect sight, but that
directly he had left the house his mind was ready
to take flight, like a bird on the wing, to that
sphere of inspiration, his beloved Common.

He would compose his poetry in the open air
as he walked along. On wending his way down
the Hill on his return, his thoughts were generally
far away in the world of music he had created, and
when he re-entered The Pines he was still thrilled
by the song he had been singing during his walk.

CHAPTER VI

THE HOUSEMATES

I HAVE never understood, and never expect
to understand, the motive actuating those persons
,who, after the deaths of Swinburne and Watts-
Dunton, began to belittle the famous friends.
To me their intimacy is simple and beautiful.
The eyes of those who behold in it a
subject for ridicule or detraction must be the eyes
of the depraved. There is no chapter in literary
history dealing with men's friendship more lovely ;
and yet envy and spite have tried to disfigure the
public aspect of this sweet and sacred thing.

I do not propose to relate in extenso the story
of how my husband and Swinburne came to live
together. That has been done accurately in
" The Life and Letters of Theodore Watts-
Dunton." The authors of that book had their
evidence at first hand. They heard the narrative

67

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

over and over again from Walter's own lips, just
as I have heard it. They heard it from Mrs.
Mason (Walter's sister), who received the poet at
her own house when he first came to Putney with
my husband. I have frequently heard the story
from the same source. Mrs. Mason's narrative
never differed on repetition, and that of Walter
never differed circumstantially from that of his
sister. I really cannot conceive of evidence more
complete and convincing. Moreover, it is first-
hand evidence given by those who had personal
knowledge of the facts stated. Nevertheless,
certain publicists found scope for misrepre-
sentation, and the authentic story was met by
printed expressions of doubt and denial.

The extraordinary thing is that Watts-Dunton's
detractors deny statements made on first-hand
testimony by quoting those made on third-hand
evidence or no evidence at all. Perhaps I am
only tempting these unscrupulous writers to fresh
manifestations of spite by saying anything more
about Swinburne's move to Putney, but I will
take the risk. There is one pathetic passage in
connection with the poet's first visit to Putney
which was told me by Walter. It has not been
published before. When Walter visited the sick
poet, he was met by the landlady who, in answer

68

THE HOUSEMATES

to my husband's enquiry about the health of her
lodger, said with an accent of deep concern:
" Well, sir, he haven't eat anything for days. A
nice beefsteak 'ud do him a power o' good";
and when Walter went into his friend's bedroom,
he felt that the first part of the lady's information
must be true, whatever might be said for her
dietetic suggestion in the second part of it. He
looked terribly ill. When at length a visit
to Putney as Walter's guest in his sister's house
was proposed, Swinburne gazed at his visitor with
anxious eyes, and in a weak and broken voice asked
eagerly, " Can't I go now"? " It would have been
quite impossible to have taken him then and there.
But the hope of going, coupled with proper
nourishment, worked a gradual change. When
at last the patient was pronounced fit for the
journey my husband appeared with the vehicle in
which they were to travel. Swinburne was
pitifully weak, and was obliged to have the
assistance of Walter's arm in descending the stairs.
He looked up at him with a flush on his pale cheeks
and a wan smile on his lips. " Oh, I'm so glad
I'm going to Putney with you," he said, in the
manner of a boy who was going on a pleasure
jaunt with a friend.

At Hyde Park Corner there was a congestion of

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

traffic. The carriage was held up in the block,
and Lord Ronald Gower, who happened to be
crossing the road at the time, saw who were the
passengers in Walter's " growler." He went
up to it and cried out, " Hullo, Watts, you've got
Swinburne there. Where are you taking him
to ? ' At that time Lord Ronald Gower did not
know Swinburne, though naturally his appearance
was well-known to one who moved, as Lord'
Ronald did, in literary and artistic circles.

Walter's reply to the enquiry was, "I'm taking
him with me to Putney." Then the pedestrian
proceeded to open the carriage-door exclaiming,
"I'm coming, too." " Oh, no, you're not ; we'll
send you a card later on to say when you can
come," was the prompt reply. As at that
moment the tide of traffic began to flow again, the

:

door of the " growler " was closed, and he went
on his way rejoicing which was also his way.
Without any notion of doing an ill-natured thing
(Lord Ronald was quite incapable of that) but from
a pure love of fun, he started the rumour that
Swinburne had been abducted by Theodore Watts,
who had sternly refused him admittance to the
conveyance in which he was carrying off his prey.
I suppose the story never reached the ears of the
housemates, as they became when they agreed to

70

THE HOUSEMATES

share the tenancy of The Pines. Lord Ronald
duly received his invitation, and he and the poet
immediately struck up a friendship which
developed into a life-long intimacy. No visitor to
The Pines was more welcome. Swinburne and this
friend had much in common, and each delighted
in the tastes and idiosyncrasies of the Other.

Lord Ronald Gower was skilled in more arts
than one. He was a sculptor, and he presented
to Swinburne a bronze statuette of Victor Hugo,
a really fine work which the poet valued, not only
because it was a likeness of his Idol, but because
it was the work of a friend. The statuette is in
my possession, and a photographic reproduction
of it appears in this book.

It was not, of course, until I became Walter's
wife that I fully appreciated the exquisite
nature of the relations existing between the two
men. On Walter's side, the love for his friend
seemed to be largely composed of what, for
want of a better word, I must call the mothering
instinct. He seemed to anticipate every wish and
want of his companion. His anxiety for his
physical welfare, his great interest in his mental
output, his concern for his domestic comfort and
for his amusement were beautiful to witness.

Swinburne's satisfaction in his domiciliary

71

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

arrangement L with my husband can easily be under-
stood. From his earliest correspondence it is
obvious that he could rely but little on himself in
the prosy affairs of the world. In his days of
"roses and raptures" he found men who professed
themselves willing to relieve him from tire-
some responsibilities. But they turned out to
be broken reeds mere boon companions, or that
less amiable class of individual with " axes to
grind." In Walter he felt he had found the ideal
friend upon whom he could rely, and his sentiment
of gratitude and admiration soon developed into an
indestructible brotherly affection. The infamous
fiction, that my husband placed Swinburne under
some kind of disciplinary restraint, would have
been fiercely resented by Swinburne himself.
Walter ruled him by love, guided him by advice,
and influenced him by suggestion. With infinite
patience and tact, he got him to change his habits,
and it was not long before he discovered that he
had by no means embarked on a hopeless task in
trying to persuade his friend to lead the healthy,
orderly life of which he was so much in need. It
says much for Walter's magnetism that he was
able to accomplish in a few months what the poet's
medical man, his family, and other friends had
given up as impossible.

72

THE HOUSEMATES

The author of "Atalanta " was just a human
being who wanted to be loved and taken care of,
and directly he came to Mrs. Mason's house, under
Walter's guidance, his cure began.

Those who have read Mr. Coulson Kernahan's
clever narrative of the way in which Walter lured
Swinburne from brandy to beer will remember the
ingenuity displayed by my husband in bringing
about the desired result.

I have often heard Walter tell the story, and
veritably Swinburne's cure was effected by the
art that conceals art. The Bard never detected
that from first to last it was a ruse, for on the
occasion of each change to a drink less potent
than its predecessor, some literary reason was
assigned which Walter guessed would awaken
desire to emulate some real or fictitious hero
beloved by Swinburne. As far as Algernon was
concerned, he simply gave up brandy because
Tennyson drank port, and changed from port to
burgundy because that was the tipple of Dumas'
immortal Musketeers. Then for an equally good
reason he proceeded to claret, and, finally, as it
was Shakespeare's drink, to beer.

Unfortunately, one day some time after my
marriage Walter got it into his head that a very
light beer, then extensively advertised and known

73

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

as " Pilsener," would be quite the thing for
Algernon and asked rue to order some. Had he
taken the precaution of informing Swinburne
beforehand that this beer, he had reason to believe,
was the established drink of, say, William
Morris or Colonel Newcome, the Bard would
have adopted it gleefully. But the bottle was
placed before him one day at luncheon without
any preliminary explanation. He poured it out
quite unsuspectingly, and under the impression
that it was his accustomed " Ind Coope." Having
tasted it, however, he flatly refused to drink the
" stuff," and with an angry glint in his eyes he
peremptorily ordered the maid to bring his usual
drink to him.

Nothing shows more effectively the success of
Walter's influence over Swinburne's early failing
than the fact that when he took his daily walks
across the Common to Wimbledon, he was
perfectly free to indulge in whatever beverage he
chose, but was never known to exceed his one
bottle of beer at his favourite inn.

I think I shall best indicate the attitude of the
housemates each to the other by quoting what on
two different occasions was said to me. Swinburne
told me one day, with an expression of infinite
tenderness in his eyes : " There is no one in the

74

A. C. SWINBURNE AND T. WATTS DUNTON IN THE GARDEN OF
THE PINES

THE HOUSEMATES

world like Walter ! ' By the way, he never called
him Theodore as he is made to do by one writer of
reminiscences.

My husband said to me long before that tribute
was paid him by Swinburne, " It is because of his
helplessness that I love him so much." No
words of mine can more adequately than these
depict the sweet relationship existing between the
men, its quality and its cause, the unceasing and
ungrudging tenderness of the protector, the
unfailing and unfaltering gratitude of his friend
and housemate.

But prejudice and malice can make critics view
life through a distorting glass. Only this can
account for the fact that when Swinburne was
rescued from pitiable surroundings and mis-
chievous companionship, and placed in comfortable
quarters, the cry went round that the physical
improvement of the poet synchronised with his
mental decay. So highly placed was the originator
of the legend, and so impartial and judicial
appeared to be his tone, that it was repeated by
the smaller fry of critics, and accepted by the
denser sort of readers.

The opponents of the change wrought by my
husband in Swinburne's manner of living are fond
of asserting that his verse deteriorated in quality

75

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

after he left Great James Street. Apparently
they deplore the cessation of the moods to which
we owe " Faustine," " Dolores," or " Herma-
phroditus." They fail to appreciate the fact
or, appreciating it, they disingenuously refrain
from stating it that a continuous supply of
bitterly erotic verse from the same source would
eventually have palled upon the public. We are
invited to suppose, however, that there are critics
who would never sicken of repetitions of the first
series of " Poems and Ballads," and when the
poet leaves his grandes amour euses and lepers, then
oh, most amusing paradox ! they dub him
decadent.

I turn for relief from the raucous chorus of
detractors to the verdict of Mrs. Disney Leith,
whose capacity for judging was not diminished
by her cousinship with the poet. She has written
of his career with discernment and corn-
prehension : " The time of his vivid and fiery
youth was not that of his best production. It
was in the little home at Putney, with its quiet
household routine . . . that the great
imperishable works of his life were brought forth."
In support of this statement, I surrender to the
temptation of quoting what from a technical
standpoint is one of the best sonnets ever written,

78

THE HOUSEMATES

that which Swinburne addressed to Walter after
they had spent two years together at The Pines :

Spring speaks again, and all our woods are stirred
And all our wide glad wastes aflower around,
That twice have heard keen April's clarion sound

Since here we first together saw and heard

Spring's light reverberate and reiterate word

Shine forth and speak in season. Life stands crowned
Here with the best one thing it ever found,

As of my soul's best birthdays dawns a third.

There is a friend that as the wise man saith
Cleaves closer than a brother : nor to me
Hath time not shown, through days like waves at strife,

This truth more sure than all things else but death,
This pearl most perfect found in all the sea
That washes toward your feet these waifs of life.

I dismiss an unpleasant subject by saying
that the argument against those who belittle
Swinburne's later work needs no exponent except
the " waifs of life " to be found in " Studies in
Song," " Tristram of Lyonesse," and the volumes
which followed them.

CHAPTER VII

THE HAWTHORNS

IN his wanderings over Wimbledon Common and
Putney Heath, Swinburne cultivated the acquaint-
ance of trees as other men cultivate the
acquaintance of their fellow-creatures. His prime
favourites were the Hawthorns. When the May
was in full blossom the poet's enthusiasm was
wonderful to witness. He never tired of talking
about the beauty of these sweet-smelling bushes.
His endeavour after one of his rambles seemed to
be to inspire us with an enthusiasm equal to his
own.

Swinburne's interest in trees dated from his
early experiences of Northumberland. He often
declared that the scenery of his beloved County
was wilder and more magnificent than any other
in England. He knew the name of a tree the
moment he saw it. No chance of the Bard

78

THE HAWTHORNS

mistaking an elm for an oak, or a beech for a birch.
And the difference between particular members
of the same sylvan species was to him as distinct
as the difference between one man and another.
Many of the trees he knew by the familiar names
bestowed upon them by the rustics of Northumber-
land. His lore concerning trysting oaks and white
poplars, about an old ash or a silver fir, was quite
interesting, and apparently inexhaustible. I was
always prepared to listen sympathetically to his
eloquent tributes to his sylvan favourites, but I
confess I was not prepared for the proposition he
made to me one day on this subject.

" When," he asked, without any prefatory
leading up to the topic " When are you coming
with me to see the hawthorns? >!

I was thinking of something quite different at
the time, and for just a moment his question
sounded as if he indicated an afternoon call on a
family of that name. A recollection, however,
of certain of his rhapsodies over the luncheon-table
made the illusion a momentary one. The
Hawthorns to whom he was anxious to introduce
me were arboreal friends of his, and not mere
creatures of flesh and blood. Nothing definite
was settled at the time of this first invitation.
Swinburne reverted to it almost daily.

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

On one occasion his tone had a pathetic and
pleading note in it. " Don't let us wait until the
blossoms are falling," he urged. " When are we
going to see the May ? ' Both Walter and I felt
that the expedition could no longer be put off. A
day and hour were settled. We arranged to meet
the poet on Putney Heath close to the house of
the late Sir George Newnes. It turned out to be
an ideal day when my husband and I started off
to keep our appointment, which to me seemed
a great adventure, for I had been but six months
married, and still felt romantically the novelty
of my position.

When we arrived at the trysting-place, we found
Swinburne already there pacing up and down,
watch in hand, in a state of great impatience. We
were, as our American friends put it, " on time,"
if, indeed, we were not more than punctual. But
the poet had evidently been experiencing con-
siderable nervousness and anxiety. He would
not imagine us forgetful, but he had conjured up
some unforeseen and unfortunate circumstance
preventing us from keeping our appointment.
His relief at our arrival was great, and he was for
darting off on the instant to introduce us to the
' hives of the honey of heaven " which at this
spot were particularly luxuriant. Walter, however,

80

had a business appointment at home and he
left us together. I strolled off ,with Swin-
burne. I found that he knew each one separately
and individually, as one knows old friends.
He ran from one to another, jumping Over
the numerous intersecting dykes and ditches and
giving me his hand to help me to leap over
to his side. When he got to one large hawthorn
of divine loveliness he paused for a long time in
front of it and drew in long deep breaths, as though
he were inhaling the subtle emanation of the
blossoms he so rapturously adored, and softly
and repeatedly ejaculated, "Ah-h-h ! ' In front
of another hawthorn, exceptionally tall and
weighed down with " the marvel of May time,"
he said, " This is one I especially want you to see.
Of course it is rather too big for a hawthorn."
With this expression of opinion I thought he
dismissed the tree, but his respect for it was greater
than his disapproval of its dimensions would have
led me to expect. Before he turned to laave,
he took off his hat, and gravely saluted the big
beauty of the hawthorn tribe.

A little further on he said to me, " Now I will
show you one quite different much smaller."
After some quick walking and occasional jumping
of ditches, he halted me in front of a short, stumpy

F 81

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

and very bushy tree perfectly t white in its mantle
of blossom. He gazed at it with the idolatrous
affection of a lover. Then he turned to me, and
asked with a sort of chastened enthusiasm, " Now,
is not that a little duck? " " Duck," I may add,
was a favourite word of the Bard's when alluding
to little things that he loved. I thought it strange
at the time that he did not appear to take any
great interest in the other glories of the heath
the yellowing gorse, the ferns just showing their
fronds, the heather with its fascinating odour. He
was subconsciously aware of them, of course, but
his visit and mine was to the Hawthorns, and
for the time being, the other beauties of the heath
did not count.

Looking back on it now, I don't know which
of us enjoyed that " hawthorn time " the more,
or which of us was the younger of the two. I
think it must have been Swinburne. He was
absolutely indefatigable. All this jumping about
in the broiling sun in the hottest part of the day did
not affect him in the least, whereas it left me
decidedly limp. I was struck with his agility,
it resembled that of some free animal of the wood-
lands. He repeated as we moved on, and
apparently to himself, without any thought
of having a hearer, the lines :

THE HAWTHORNS

In hawthorn time the heart grows light,
The world is sweet in sound and sight.

But the hearer on this occasion recognised the
quotation. " Why," I said to him, " those are
the opening lines of ' The Tale of Balen ' !" He
stopped short in his stride, his expression one of
combined surprise and pleasure. " Have you read
' The Tale of Balen '?" he asked. I told him
for the second time for he had completely
forgotten about the talk at our first meeting that
not only had I read " Balen," but that Walter
had asked me to transcribe it, and that I knew
every word of it. He seemed greatly interested
in my statement and gave me a look like an
unspoken benediction.

Swinburne abominated typewriting, and latterly
all his poetry was copied by hand before it went
to the printers who set up from copy while the
original remained in the poet's possession. I
remember how the Bard would snatch up his proofs
as soon as they arrived " to see what the devils
were up to " meaning the compositors. Here
I may say that Swinburne's usual practice was to
publish everything he wrote directly he was \ i
satisfied with it. Walter said to me, "Algernon
is the exact opposite to me. I am loth to publish

83

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

anything. Swinburne burns to see his work in
proof."

But to return to our walk. Swinburne's talk as
we gained the road was mainly about the gorgeous
sights and delicious odours from which jve had
just emerged. But these did not provide the
whole of his subject matter. I happened to
mention the name of a man of whom from the
expression that his countenance suddenly assumed
he evidently did not approve. The poet stopped
and growled out a word which I could not catch.
It sounded like " Polly ' something, and I
supposed my friend wished to convey the idea of
effeminacy in the gentleman whose name I had
mentioned. Some time after I asked him to tell
me what word he had used. He was in one of his
most amiable moo'ds, and he not only repeated
the word but he wrote it down for me in very
large and distinct letters. I have still preserved
it as a memento. Here it is :

' ' polypseudonymuncle . ' '

Asked about its precise meaning, he readily
answered that it meant " a horrible little sewer-
rat who had been convicted under a hundred
aliases." I expressed my surprise that one word

84

THE HAWTHORNS

could convey so many. He declared that he quite
shared my feeling. As we were nearly home,
and about to cross the road, a pony-cart passed up
the hill. The cargo of the driver consisted of caged
birds. It was a miscellaneous lot. It appeared
to comprise all sorts and conditions of bird from
the canary to the cockatoo. Prominent among
the captives were some parrots, and I drew the
poet's attention to a depressed specimen crouching
at the end of his perch in a cage far too small for
him. Some association of ideas set the poet off
on a fresh conversational track. He asked me if I
had ever heard of a wonderful parrot at one time
in the possession of his sister. I shook my head.
He proceeded to expatiate on the recorded
exploits of the gaudy and gifted creature. His
sister's parrot so he said he had been assured
both sang and recited " Malbrouck s'en vat-t'en
guerre *' with the utmost fluency. " Did he
swear?" I enquired. "Alas! No," said Swin-
burne. " Although he had been adopted by a
naval family, the creature was innately genteel and
Victorian."

After a silence he resumed his reminiscences.
He told me that one day Walter and he had gone
to lunch with his sister Alice. With a mock
tragic air he explained that it was a sad occasion.

85

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

The feathered pet had, in a tolerably green old
age, paid the debt of nature. His sister was
naturally much distressed at the loss of her bird.
And Alice being the Bard's favourite sister, he
was naturally affected by the depression of his
hostess. The meal was a dull affair, and on leaving
the house Swinburne again and again expressed
his regret that anything should have happened
to have upset her so gravely. " But," said
Swinburne, " my one regret was that my deafness
never allowed me to hear the talented creature
sing his famous little French song. How I should
have enjoyed that! "

I would dearly have liked to continue our walk,
for Swinburne's ebullient spirits were contagious
and he was in a particularly lively mood. But the
luncheon-hour was approaching, and we were
obliged to turn our backs to the country and make
tracks for home. He appeared charmed when I
told him how much I had enjoyed seeing the
Hawthorns, and of my wish to pay them another
visit. He beamed with pleasure at the idea of
being again my " cicerone," as he called it, and
immediately suggested that his sister Isabel should
join our next expedition. "I'll write to her
this afternoon," he said, " and urge her to come."
I used to love the days when Isabel came to

86

THE HAWTHORNS

The Pines. To see the brother and sister greet
each other was a positive delight, such simple and
devoted affection did the one entertain for
the other.

On reaching home, Swinburne followed me into
the room where Walter sat waiting for us. Full
of animation, the poet said, " Clara and I have
seen my beautiful Hawthorns ; and it was
like being with a hamadryad absolutely a
hamadryad."

The letter to Isabel was duly despatched and
both Swinburne and I looked forward to showing
her " the little duck " and all the other wonders of
the heath. Alas ! on the day she elected to come it
poured with rain, and the visit had to be put off
until a more propitious occasion. Swinburne was
as disappointed as a child,

87

MISS ISABEL SWINBURNE

Now that Damon and Pythias have passed
" beyond the veil," I think of the gentle,
affectionate and always courteous attitude of
Swinburne towards myself. I was admitted as
a privileged member of the inner circle. On my
part I did all in my power to make myself
acquainted with the literary topics they discussed,
and trained myself to take an intelligent interest
in their conversation, which often, I quite freely
admit, was miles above my head. Swinburne,
when first informed that Walter and I were to
be married, expressed himself very characteristic-
ally. " You know," he said to Walter, " I think
all this is very jolly." He took unusual pains in
the selection of a wedding-present for us, which
on this occasion did not take the shape of books.
Something different had to be thought of, and

88

MISS ISABEL SWINBURNE

he had set his mind on " something beautiful in
silver." He applied to his sister Isabel to aid
him in his quest. He eventually selected an
exquisite dish in dull beaten silver, the signs of
the Zodiac in coloured enamels embellishing its
artistic column and base. I recall too that when
our marriage was announced he and Walter went
off at once to Onslow Square to convey what the
poet described as " the wonderful news " to his
sister. Then he became impatient in his desire
to make me acquainted with her. Miss Isabel
Swinburne was the last surviving member of the
poet's family and the youngest of his four sisters,
none of whom married, his younger brother
Edward being the only one of Admiral and Lady
Jane Swinburne's children to quit the single state.
When I saw Isabel for trie first time she was about
fifty-four years of age. She was still very good-
looking, and as a girl must have been extremely
pretty. She was of medium height, inclined
perhaps to be a trifle stout, her complexion
was creamy in its smooth excellence, her eyes
angelically blue. Her movements had the agility
of youth. Elegance and refinement united in her
with esprit and subtle charm. Some might have
called her gushing, but in her case an effusion of
pleasant words implied to me sympathy and

89

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

tenderness. Moreover, she easily saw the funny
side of things. Swinburne invariably addressed
her as "Abbas," a nursery name. To her and
a few close friends he was " Hadji."

Walter accompanied me on my first visit to
Isabel Swinburne. The reception she gave me
was delightfully cordial and obviously sincere, and
we soon became great friends. She at once
insisted on my calling her " Isabel," and when
I forgot this friendly injunction, she reminded me
of it by saying, in her inimitably pretty way, that
she did not know who " Miss Swinburne " was.
As to Swinburne's attitude of brotherly affection
to myself, he took an early opportunity of assuring
me that he looked upon me as " something near."
In proof of this declaration he presented me with
a beautiful edition of " Lorna Doone v bound
in white vellum, with this inscription :

To Clara Watts-Dunton,

From her affectionate brother-in-law
Algernon Charles Swinburne.

The gift afforded me unbounded pleasure, and
the inscription seemed to assure me that the
fraternal bond that held the two housemates was
undisturbed by my coming. The sumptuous
volume was illustrated with thirty-seven landscape

90

MISS ISABEL SWINBURNE

views of the scenery round and about the Doone
Valley. I well remember how, on the day he gave
it to me, he enthusiastically cut open the pages
facing the illustrations and drew my attention to
a particularly lovely one depicting Porlock Bay.
He gazed otFiirfor a long time, declaring it to b<!
worthy otf Turner, whjkn he considered the greatest
landscape ^painter^m the world.* But when we
came across a full-page illustration of three human
figures he hurried past it with an unmistakable
sign of annoyance, and confided to me that he
hated (Swinburne never disliked anything
he always hated or loathed it) illustrated books
where human beings were portrayed. He told
me that one of his reasons for choosing that
particular edition was because he imagined it to
be free from such pictorial eyesores. Nothing in
a small way vexed him more than to find, even
in a magazine, an illustration to a story with a
footline of this sort : " Suddenly, she looked him

* Turner gave Swinburne's mother, Lady Jane Swinburne,
six original water-colour drawings. She treasured them so
much that she would never go anywhere without them. When-
ever the family travelled abroad, a portfolio containing the
precious drawings always accompanied them. I was privileged
to see them on more than one occasion. They were unframed,
and kept in the portfolio always, and never allowed to be
exposed, in case the light should fade their wonderful colour.

91

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

straight in the face." My imagination refuses to
conjure up what he would have said if he had seen
the portrait of himself as a hairy Satyr delighting
an audience of naked babes, which adorns the
posthumous collection of his child-poetry entitled
" The Spring-tide of Life."

92

CHAPTER IX

SWINBURNE'S CONSTITUTIONAL

SWINBURNE'S daily walk across the Common to
Wimbledon and back has been done to death.
Every yard of the way has been described ;
and, indeed, stretches of the heath which were
not included in his itinerary have been " written
up ' and photographed. Imaginative writers
have boldly identified his favourite spots. But
these enthusiasts have, as a rule, ended their
narratives at the very point where cynics might
suppose the human interest of the story to begin,
namely, the village of Wimbledon itself. For the
limit of Swinburne's walk was the old-fashioned
inn known as " The Rose and Crown." Else-
where I have described one of my walks with the
poet over his beloved common, with the remarks
he made to me on his favourite trees. Here I
follow him to his favourite inn, and to the shop

93

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

at which he bought a daily paper and sometimes
ordered, from a catalogue, some rare old book
which the owner of the shop would procure for him.
At both the inn and the shop Swinburne's memory
is still cherished with affectionate reverence.

Visitors will find the exterior of " The Rose
and Crown " exactly as it was in the poet's day.
The interior has, alas ! been altered out of
recognition. I shudder to think what the effect
on Swinburne would have been had the architec-
tural transformation been effected in his time.
The cosy little " coffee room " which he entered
from the street has disappeared, and with it has
disappeared the chair in which he always sat. But
it is in safe keeping ; and I just loved the widow
of the late landlord when she told me that she
would not part with it for any sum that might be
offered.

When once Swinburne had established himself
as a daily customer at " The Rose and Crown "
he was spared the usual formality of ordering.
From the bar his entry was noted. They had
been keeping a look-out for him, and a waiter
' entered from without " bearing a bottle of Bass
with a replica of the peculiarly thick tumbler which
the Bard used at home. It is related, with a note
of tragedy in the recital, how this sacred beaker,

94

SWINBURNE'S CONSTITUTIONAL

which was kept for his use, was smashed by a care-
less barmaid. Unfortunately there was not
another such glass in the house. Swinburne was
greatly " put out " by the accident. He did not
relish his Bass from any other vessel ; was moody
and silent during his stay, leaving the place
abruptly after but a very short rest. Happily, on
the same afternoon a stock of tumblers like that
which had been broken was procured, and from
the morrow until the end the poet was provided
with the vessel that he preferred.

The cosy little apartment which he used was
not much frequented during the time of his visit ;
but it was not, of course, a private room, and a
stray visitor would sometimes enter it while the
poet was in possession. Then one of two things
happened. If Swinburne had nearly finished his
bottle, he would get up and disappear into
the village High Street. If, on the other hand,
he had only just begun to refresh himself, he would
seek sanctuary in the landlord's private room. As
all his movements were watched by the host or
his assistants with a really pious solicitude, he
would immediately be followed to his retreat by
a servant bringing with him the bottle and the
glass which the poet had abandoned in the
" Coffee Room." It is as well to say here that

95

Swinburne's intense love of privacy has given
rise to a vast amount of foolish and sometimes
spiteful talk about his inaccessibility at The Pines.
He was not inaccessible to those he desired to
see.

I have often thought when viewing Swinburne's
life at The Pines both before and after my
marriage, that Sydney Smith may have been quite
wrong in ridiculing the idea of a " Special
Providence." For surely some unseen power must
have arranged matters for the convenience of the
Bard. When he made his first excursions to
Wimbledon he at once discovered the very people
who seemed intuitively to understand how he
wished to be served. These admirable persons
may have been entertaining an angel. But they
were not entertaining the angel " unawares."
As we have seen, he daily found at an Inn (the
first and only one he went to at Wimbledon) a
host and hostess who might have been appointed
by the Almighty to minister to his needs after the
very fashion he desired.

A little higher up the village High Street
he came, during his first exploratory ramble, on
the shop of a bookseller and stationer. Here he

96

SWINBURNE'S CONSTITUTIONAL

established himself on an excellent footing with
the proprietress, and here, for thirty years, he
repaired every week day of his life while he was
living at Putney to buy newspapers. Books he
also bought here, and, in December, Christmas
cards. Of his Christmas cards I shall have some-
thing to say elsewhere.

When the poet returned from his daily walk,
buoyant, excited and invigorated by the exercise,
the conversation at lunch often turned on the
Wimbledon book-shop and its amiable owner, Miss
Frost. Swinburne imagined that he had
discovered in her a survival of the gentle, placid,
efficient Englishwoman limned in the pages of
Jane Austin. Miss Frost knew the identity of her
illustrious customer, and was especially anxious to
make things pleasant for him. She succeeded
marvellously, and Swinburne was quite at ease in
her establishment.

There is a class of hero-worshippers who would

intrude on the privacy of an eremite for the sake

of telling their friends that they had interviewed

' a celebrity." Wimbledon had its proportion

of this unpleasant and persistent tribe ; and

it would happen sometimes that Swinburne was

tracked down by one of these persons. The

hunter was usually, I am sorry to say, a woman,

Q 97

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

She would come in, and under the pretence of
purchasing a " H.B." pencil or a pennyworth
Of blotting-paper, endeavour to force herself upon
the notice of the poet. Miss Frost was prepared
for such emergencies, and if the obtrusive " Mrs.
Leo Hunter " were not forced to a retreat by the
great man's freezing glance, he would escape
molestation by withdrawing to the private room
of the sympathetic bookseller. It must be ad-
mitted that A. C. S was in the habit of accepting
considerate attention of this kind too much as a
matter of course. But that he was au fond grateful
and appreciative I have the very best authority for
stating.

On one Occasion an aggressive lady, blessed with
one of those voices that are said to " carry,"
actually went up to the poet and expressed a desire
to shake hands with him. He glared, irresponsive.
She repeated the request, raising her voice to the
whole extent of its carrying power. He made
a characteristic movement of the shoulders
indicative of deafness and despair, and rushed
out of the shop. On the following day when he
paid his visit to his bookseller, he exclaimed
abruptly to Miss Frost : " What a terrible woman
that was yesterday ! And oh, what an awful
voice ! ' He had evidently heard the request

SWINBURNE'S CONSTITUTIONAL

of the huntress. The voice had " carried " all
right.

Very curious I thought this desire on the part of
people who did not know Swinburne and of some
who did not even know his works to shake hands
with him. When I went into society, enthusiastic
persons with whom my acquaintance was of the
thinnest possible kind would come up and say :
" Oh, Mrs. W r atts-Dunton, could you arrange for
my son (or nephew or daughter as the case might
be) to call at The Pines just to shake Mr.
Swinburne by the hand." To these I would say :
" I will ask Mr. Swinburne and let you know."
Of course I never spoke to the poet of these hand-
shaking sentimentalists, for he simply loathed their
sort of homage and was extremely sensitive on the
subject.

Swinburne had a horror of drawing small
cheques. Only with difficulty could he be
persuaded to draw one for five pounds ; below that
he absolutely refused to go. Periodically he
got the bookseller at Wimbledon to change
him a cheque for twenty pounds. The money was
obtained in gold from the bank at the other side
of the street. He took it away in the little canvas
bag used by bankers, and this bag, when he
returned to The Pines was placed on a shelf

99

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

in the corner cupboard where he kept his
manuscripts. The bag was always open, and so
was the cupboard. From this store of gold he
drew for his daily requirements until the little bag
was empty. Then he would draw another cheque
for twenty and get Miss Frost to cash it. For
a long series of years, indeed, this lady played the
part of a fairy godmother to him. And it is not
everybody, I can assure the reader, who is qualified
to play fairy godmother to a genius.

Sometimes the Wimbledon purchases grew
to a considerable bulk. Swinburne in a book-
seller's was something like a schoolboy in a
tuck-shop. Temptation was on all sides of him,
and he found it irresistible. For the carriage of
his treasures he had two very large pockets in his
coat. We called them his "poacher-pockets."
One of the self-imposed duties of the kindly
bookseller at Wimbledon was to see that these
poacher-pockets balanced nicely. The poet
himself was not deft in stowing away his
purchases ; and with one heavy pocket weighing
down on one side and a light one on the other,
the walk home across the Common would have
been fatiguing even to such an excellent
pedestrian.

I can fancy him now, impatient but tractable, as

100

SWINBURNE'S CONSTITUTIONAL

he stands while the adjustment of the parcels is
proceeded with, his relief when the balance
is decided to be s< just so," his courtly bow
on departure and his quick, springy walk home
across the Common. 'And I can see him now as,
on his return, he comes into the dining-room, gay
and beaming and, to my thinking, beautiful. His
eyes would sparkle with sheer delight as he pro-
duced some of the morning's " finds." Perhaps it
was a rare old volume ordered long since from a
catalogue. Perhaps some freakishly small edition
of a classic. Dwarf reproductions afforded him
infinite pleasure. Perhaps it was a newspaper
containing a complimentary notice of some work
by a friend, or a notice, equally laudatory, of a
writer whose output he despised. The latter he
would read in impressive tones, exclaiming at the
finish, with a roguish twinkle in his eyes, " I should
much like to feel that person's ' bumps.' This
phrenological phrase was often used by him when
referring to somebody who, in the direction of
bad art, might be regarded as capable de tout.

During luncheon he would talk brightly, vividly,
and at times eloquently, of books and men. With
a courtliness which was one of his most delightful
characteristics, he would lure me into the con-
versation, amusing me with gossip about what he

101

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

saw on Wimbledon Common and ask when I next
would accompany him on one of his walks. The
world will always and rightly honour him as a
great poet. To me he appealed also as a great
gentleman.

102

<" g

fa <*

O s

1
S S

*

I BEGIN .writing this chapter in that upstairs room
at The Pines once known as " Swinburne's
Library." From the window in front of which
I am sitting, the garden on which the poet's eyes
so often rested, is in full view. He loved it. Its
green refreshed his eyes after poring over his books
or working at his manuscript. Spring was a season
that always appealed to him. The garden then was
a solace and delight. It is Spring now, and the
picture has not changed. The high ivy-clad walls,
the huge ferns beneath, which came from my
husband's home at St. Ives, and the tall trees in
the background all look as delightfully verdant as
they did in Springs when he was on earth.

Floriculture was not a hobby with either of the
housemates. There are masses of purple iris on
either side of the stretch of grass, and we boasted

103

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

of one rose-tree. It bears the fascinating name
of " Hebe's Lips," and was given to me by Lady
Leighton- Warren. I planted it by the statue that
stands in the middle of the enclosure a replica of
the Vatican Venus, moved from Rossetti's garden
at 16, Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, to its present
position. A thrush is singing somewhere in the
fringe of foliage. From the outer world comes
the hoot of a motor-horn and the rumble of heavy
traffic. In my loneliness the past comes vividly
back to me. And here, in this room dedicated
to the greatest poet of the Victorian period
recollections drive on me in waves ; my memory
is suddenly like a stream in spate. And the
difficulty with me is what to select as memorable
and what to reject as trivial.

Yet can anything that concerns the home life
of a poet like Swinburne a genius so universally
acclaimed be dismissed as trivial? I hope not.
For here, in the room that was once his,
the memories that crowd in upon me are not those
of the maker of glorious song, but those associated
with the affectionate friend, the lovable
companion. His greatness does not concern me.
My recollections are all of his little personal traits,
his delightful idiosyncrasies, his fads and fancies
a phase of the poet's personality unknown to the

104

A POET'S FADS

outside world. It is of this aspect of Swinburne
that I now write, sitting where he often sat, and
wondering if he has discovered whether

His life is a watch or a vision
Between a sleep and a sleep.

Swinburne had no end of " fads." It was a
whim of his, for instance, never to allow himself
to be measured or fitted by a tailor. There must
have been an occasion, of course, and that, too,
when he had grown to manhood, when he was
obliged to submit to the indignity. And I can
imagine his restlessness and irritability when the
tape was thrown over and around his person, when
chalk marks were made on the " fittings," and
when plebeian hands patted his shoulders and fussed
over his limbs. But there came a time when he
declared he would no longer endure the ordeal.
And he never again did. If he wanted a new
suit, it had to be made on the model of an old one.
The tailor always protested : " I cannot do myself
justice," he would say. Whereupon A. C. S.
would consign all tailors to fire and brimstone
to everlasting disaster in this world and to eternal
damnation in the world to come. The affair
would be happily arranged, and the result quite
wonderful. The clothes were always an admirable

105

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

fit, and though it was impossible for Swinburne
to wear clothes to the best advantage, he always
appeared well-dressed. From my woman's point
of view, the extraordinary circumstance is that the
tailor working under such harassing conditions
was able to show such good results.

Another curious fancy of Swinburne's was
about soap. He had discovered or a friend had
discovered for him a brand known as " Sam-
phire Soap," which was extensively advertised by
a quotation from rt King Lear ' ' :

Half way down
Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!

This precious tablet smelt of the sea. Or was
supposed to smell of the sea. A. C. S. believed
implicitly that it was highly charged with the active
principle of ozone. He sensed the wave in its
odour, and the suds in his bath were refreshing to
him as the foam of the ocean. Needless to say,
' Samphire " soap was a thing of which we never
permitted ourselves to " run short." I still keep
a cake of it as a souvenir of the happiest time of
my life.

Swinburne seemed constitutionally averse from
doing anything himself which he could get others
to do for him. For instance, he refused absolutely

106

A POET'S FADS

to open himself any letters addressed to him except
those from members of his family. This duty
,was supposed to devolve on Walter. But very
often it became mine. The handwriting and post-
marks sufficiently indicated the family letters,
which were given to the Bard unopened. The
others were what one would expect letters from
admirers, from publishers, from " friends," and
a great number from autograph-hunters. With
appeals of the last-named the poet's post-bag was
always well supplied " full measure and running
over." Most of these applicants were unknown
persons having no claim whatever on the amiability
of the poet. Their missives were consigned
to the waste-paper basket. We had a printed
form which we sent to a selected few. In
this Mr. Swinburne " presented his compli-
ments ' ' to the writer and regretted that he ' i was
obliged to make it a rule not to supply his
autograph. Some of the applicants resented this
polite refusal. But what was one to do? Anyhow,
it was comparatively easy to deal with this class
of correspondent ; but Swinburne's disinclination
to open his letters once had embarrassing conse-
quences for me.

My husband had handed me a batch of letters
which from their covers appeared to be of the usual

107

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

circular sort, or of the autograph-hunting variety,
and I proceeded to open them mechanically. Then I
came to a politely- worded letter from Lord Curzon
to the poet. This, I at once felt, placed itself
in the same category as communications from the
family a missive which should have been opened
only by A. C. S. himself. 'At once I jumped up
and ran with it to Walter. Although my husband
never in his life said an unkind word to me, I
judged from his expression that he was greatly
annoyed and distressed. He desired me to go to
Swinburne myself and explain the matter. I
went. I anticipated some irritation on the part
of the addressee of the note perhaps words of
rebuke and reproach. Nothing of the kind
happened. He took the letter from me, read it,
smiled at my expressions of apology and regret,
and declared in his urbane way, " I am so sorry
you should feel troubled over so trifling a thing.
I will answer the letter myself after I have shown
it to Walter." Days elapsed before the answer
was written. He came into our room with it and
handed it to my husband. " Do you think this
will do? "he asked. No one could have guessed
from his casual manner that the letter was of any
particular importance. It was, however, his reply
to Lord Curzon delicately but definitely declining

log

A POET'S FADS

the honorary degree offered by his old University
of Oxford.

Swinburne's preference for a large foolscap
paper of an unusually deep blue will be recollected
by those who have seen his MSS. Ream upon
ream of this stationery must have been used up
during the years of his life passed at The Pines.
It was as permanent a household requirement as
the " Samphire " soap. Perhaps, like that toilet
requisite, it reminded him of the sea.

No doubt the reader will find it hard to visualise
the poet as a leader of fashion. Nevertheless, it
has to be recorded that in one article of attire he
set the mode. He was the pioneer of the
starchless collar and soft-fronted shirt, for he wore
them years before I was born. In the period to
which he always referred as " when I was a kid
at Eton," he had stiffness enough in his linen to
last him a lifetime,. Freed from the tyranny
of the Eton " house " laundress, he forswore
starch and had the courage to sacrifice glossiness
for comfort. It is something to have lived to see
unstarched body-linen become as popular as the
" Poems and Ballads."

Fancies ought not to be confounded with fads,

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

but they have a sort of cousinship with them and
are not altogether inappropriate to this chapter.
Let me therefore say something here about
Swinburne's taste in newspapers.

Lord Burnham may be interested to learn that
Swinburne's morning paper was the Daily
Telegraph. The Bard had no sympathy what-
ever for Matthew Arnold's fine disdain for this
organ ; he attributed it to jealousy. Arnold-
he told my husband was wroth because the Daily
Telegraph was edited for years " by a fellow of
the same name." He would maliciously add " and
I understand that both these journalists employ
their moments of leisure in writing verses." The
Telegraph appealed to him as a youth. " There is
too much TPe-ishness about The Times," I once
heard him say, the allusion being of course to the
stately editorial " We " of the leading article. On
another occasion a friend quoted to him a Times
article in which the "We" of Printing House
Square administered a solemn warning to a certain
foreign power. " It reminds me," said Swinburne,
" of an editorial article in an Irish paper called the
Skibbereen Eagle. The article began, " We have
our eye on Russia."

Readers of Swinburne's poetry know that, for
a poet, he was exceptionally interested in politics.

no

A POET'S FADS

They might think, however, that his interest
depended on sudden excitements inflaming his
patriotism or his republicanism. On the contrary,
he was steadily interested in the political affairs of
the world and discussed them daily with my
husband.

In the progress of science, strangely enough,
he took not the faintest interest, and Walter used
often to say to me that it was useless to try to
discuss a scientific subject with Algernon as it only
bored him.

In the afternoon the Bard had the Pall Mall
Gazette. If that evening paper failed to arrive at its
appointed time, he grew quite restless, pacing up
and down his room and exhibiting other symptoms
of impatience. It came and there was silence.
He liked to read the book-notices, and as far as
my personal knowledge of his newspaper reading
goes, I can vouch for the absorbing interest which
he would take in a paragraph, such as would appear
now and then in the Pall Mall Gazette, recording
the death of a centenarian or nonagenarian. When
he happened on one, of these stimulating items, he
would hurry down to us, paper in hand, and in a
joyous mood read and remark on some paragraph
like this : " Mrs. So-and-So has just died at the
age of ninety-nine in full possession of all her

111

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

faculties. Ah ! How very wonderful ! So splendid
of her! Quite beats my aunt JM." Swinburne's
"Aunt Ju" was invariably trotted out when
remarkably old ladies became a topic of conversa-
tion. Miss Julia Swinburne ("Aunt Ju ") was
one of his favourite aunts and a fine artist. She
was a pupil of Turner, and actually painted in the
open air when she was nearly ninety. The poet's
naive joy in these simple notices was on one
occasion transferred into extravagant anger. He
had come across an obituary notice headed " Death
of a Centenarian." It was a rather long obituary.
So he swooped down upon us before going through
it, his face radiant full of the rapture of a great
discovery. He began to read. The providential
preservation of the old man's faculties, the facility
with which he " read the smallest print without
the aid of spectacles" all these things were added
to our stock of useless knowledge. And then came
the words unexpected by us and certainly not
anticipated by the reader "As a youth he had
met the Great Napoleon. Ugh ! ! " Anyone curious
to know of what heights of violent vituperation the
poetic soul is capable should have heard one of
Swinburne's tirades when the name of a Bonaparte
was mentioned. Words and combinations of
words, weird but picturesque, issued from his

112

A POET'S FADS

mouth like flames from a burning chimney.
The old man was forgotten his centenarianism
appealed no more, his " faculties " and his mastery
of small print were no longer of the slightest
interest. The denunciation to which I listened
might have been uttered by a bargee with a liberal
knowledge of the beautiful Billingsgate of the
Porch. To me the experience had all the delight
of novelty, but after several similar exhibitions, I
began to wonder how a man could work himself
into such a passion about anything as Swinburne
invariably achieved at the mention of a Bonaparte.
Even Victor Hugo's literary castigation of
Napoleon III is mild compared with Swinburne's
impromptu diatribes against the first and the last
emperors of that name.

The Bard was noticeably addicted to the use of
catchwords. Mrs. Gamp supplied him with several.
A phrase having struck him as acutely humorous,
he would seize upon it, repeat it, domesticate it,
so to speak, and thenceforth trot it out on
innumerable occasions. One example must
suffice here. He was immensely tickled by the
remark alleged to have been made by Charlotte
Bronte's father when " Jane Eyre " was acclaimed
by the critics. The remark, addressed to Emily
and Anne, was " Charlotte has been writing a

H 113

book, and it is much better than likely." This
afforded the poet ecstasies of delight. He disliked
parsons, and he rejoiced in obtaining from
the Brontes' clerical father what he regarded as
a matchless specimen of critical and parsbnical
ineptitude. Hence when some remarkable work
was mentioned in the Bard's presence, he
immediately fired off his "it is much better than
likely " or " it's rather better than likely " with
all the pleasure of a schoolboy conscious of
doing something impish. In moods like this
never displayed before visitors he was quite
adorable.

Very characteristic of him are the marginalia
which he occasionally jotted against passages that
excited him to comment while reading. As a rule
these scribblings were not intended to be critical
in any serviceable way ; they were, for the most
'part, mere tokens of a mood, flippant or not as the
case might be. Perhaps the note would be merely
an interjection. From this you would infer just
how the passage opposite to it had affected him.
He hated anything unctuous or hypocritical.
When he wished to indicate a passage which struck
him as reeking abominably of oily hypocrisy, he
would write on the margin, "Ah! " An ironic
use of "Alas! " appears elsewhere; and, opposite

114

A POET'S FADS

a text of Scripture quoted in a pamphlet, he has
written a la Mrs. Gamp, " Sich was his Bible
language ! '

How many things come back to me now as I
gaze into the deserted garden !

115

CHAPTER XI

THE BARD AS A MAN OF BUSINESS

IN some respects Algernon Swinburne was quite
business-like. In the ordering of his daily life he
was as methodical as a city man. His hours were
fixed and he was punctuality itself in observing
them. He knew the place of every book on every
shelf in his library. His manuscript was always
ready to his hand. If he laid down a book he had
been reading, he would take it up again, perhaps
days afterwards, and re-commence reading at the
place where he had left off. Were method and
punctuality the only qualities demanded from a
man of affairs, his equipment would have been
perfect. But there are others essential to the
complete city man. And in these he was
deficient.

Money holds a very important place in the
transactions of business men even where money

116

THE BARD AS A MAN OF BUSINESS

does not pass in coin or cheques. I have been told
that a mere nod from a great financial operator
may mean the transfer of hundreds of thousands
of pounds. To the poet such a tale would appeal
only as an example of Oriental magic, if indeed
he did not dismiss it as grotesque. In the small
monetary transactions of daily life the Bard was
hopelessly incompetent. To him money was
merely good hard coin. I believe the paper
currency of to-day would have maddened him, and
that John Bradbury or N. K. Warren Fisher
would have become the constant object of his
picturesque vituperation. Amounts on paper were
unrealities to him. His neglect of dividend
warrants and publishers' cheques was amazing.

Here for instance is a letter there are others
of a similar kind from his long-suffering
publishers. It is dated 10th January, 1901 :

DEAR MR. SWINBURNE,

On looking through our pass-book, we noted that the
cheque we sent you for 200-11-9, drawn in your favour
on July 5th, 1900, for royalties then due, has not been
passed into the bankers, although the one for .115-9-9
which we sent you last week, has been duly presented and
paid.

As our previous cheque may have been lost, or
inadvertently overlooked, we think it best to bring the

117

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

matter under your notice. We shall be happy to issue a
duplicate if you are unable to lay your hands upon the
missing cheque which we shall then instruct our bankers
to cancel, should it by any chance hereafter be presented
to them for payment.

With kind regards,

We are, dear Mr. Swinburne,
Yours very faithfully,

CHATTO & WINDUS.

I am not in a position to say what reply was sent
to this particular letter, but it is certain that even
a letter of this kind, a model of courtesy, would
sometimes excite Swinburne to wrath. It would
interrupt and bore him ; and, hating to be inter-
rupted, or bored, he would consign, in a burst of
rhetoric, publishers and bankers, their methods
and their persons to every conceivable sort of
Inferno. But this explosion would not be followed
by any attempt to make a search for the missing
document. Nor was the polite letter from the pub-
lishers usually regarded by him as anything calling
for reply or acknowledgment. Eventually, and
in despair, the firm would write to my husband
imploring his assistance and advice. A search would
then be made, and the cheque would, perhaps, be,
discovered tucked away with any old rubbish ; or
perhaps the document would have disappeared

118

THE BARD AS A MAN OF BUSINESS

from the face of the earth and the promised
duplicate would be forwarded in due course.

Swinburne's relations with Messrs. Chatto and
Windus were fundamentally excellent. They
were his publishers from 1878 to his death, and
Mr. Andrew Chatto attended his funeral.

I have said enough concerning the poet's
ineptitude as a man of business. I have now to
speak of the business faculty which he showed in
arranging his life's routine at The Pines. The
programme was his Own, laid^down in the days

when he and my husband wejreJboUHbachelors, and

^--^>"^ \

it was adhered to with/pathetic fidelity^ Nor was
there anything in the assignment of hours that
called for alteration w r hen I little more than a
girl in years beorifhe chatelaine at The Pines.

At about ten o'clock a.m. the poet came down
from his bedroom and went into his library on the
first floor. Here breakfast was at once served.
He desired always to breakfast alone. One of his
little fads was to Have his coffee made in an old
silver coffee-pot, engraved with his initials, his
companion since his not particularly joyous
'Varsity days. He then glanced at the daily paper.
At eleven o'clock or thereabouts he was ready for

119

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

his .walk to Wimbledon. This, I think, was to him
the great event of the day. He thoroughly
enjoyed the exercise, and to his business-like
regularity in adhering to this daily practice must
be mainly attributed the excellent health he
enjoyed. He went out in all weathers. He
absolutely refused to encumber himself with an
overcoat, umbrella or gloves. One might as well
have offered an umbrella to an antelope or
mountain goat.

Towards one-thirty, he returned from his walk,
rushed upstairs to his bedrobm with the elas-
ticity and noise of a boy, and changed all his
under-garments. The poet's laundry bill was a
formidable document such dozens of shirts !
Swinburne's passionate desire for personal clean-
liness is inconsistent with artistic Bohemia and its
traditions. Fresh as the proverbial daisy, at half-
past one he would bound into the dining-room,
ready for lunch, and eager to talk of his adventures,
his purchases, and his experiences generally.

Here, as illustrating a self-control with which
he is seldom credited, I record his avoidance
of those dishes which he knew from experience
were not good for him. For instance, he
avoided shell-fish, although he liked it. Lobster
or crab was never served. I remember once

120

THE BARD AS A MAN OF BUSINESS

buying some aspic jelly which I made into
moulds with very pink shrimps showing through
the gelatinous transparency. He was immensely
pleased with the appearance of the dainty. " How
very pretty those little things look almost too
pretty to eat !" was his comment. " 'But I think
I must this time because you prepared it."

Lunch at an end, the next item was the siesta.
For this he retired to his bedroom. It lasted until
about four, at which hour he descended to his
library and read or wrote until six. Next to that
of his morning walk, six o'clock w r as the hour he
anticipated with the greatest delight. Punctually
to the minute, he would announce himself in our
sitting-room downstairs, armed with the volume in
which he was interested at the time. It was usually
a work of Dickens for the poet was a devoted
Dickensian. At first, let me confess, the evening
reading bored me, and I frequently avoided being
present. But when I saw the pleasure that
reciting his favourite " bits " afforded the poet, I
submitted with a good grace and even experienced
a sort of reflected pleasure in the exercise,
although the function usually lasted for an hour
and three-quarters something of a trial for one
who is young and accustomed to the ordinary

pleasures of youth.

121

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

At eight o'clock, the reading having lasted until
a quarter to that hour, we moved to the dining-
room for the evening meal, and, that being over,
Swinburne went up to his library to browse among
his books.

Such was the daily routine, and my husband was
anxious that it should be observed with the most
religious particularity. Any slight departure
from the daily round affected Walter more than
it affected his friend. My husband never exhibited
any signs of annoyance or impatience, but I, who
read him, knew. For himself it mattered nothing.
All his fear was lest the Bard should be " put
out " by any slight departure from the appointed
happenings. The visits of friends, either of
Swinburne or of my husband, were not permitted
to make any difference in the settled programme.
; The Hours " were regarded as sacred at The
Pines.

Although the Bard exhibited a really unheard-of
carelessness in dealing with cheques for consider-
able sums, he had a curious business instinct in
asserting his commercial rights in small matters.
For instance, when he ordered a recently-published
book he always demanded the once obtainable

122

THE BARD AS A MAN OF BUSINESS

discount of three pence in the shilling. And when
he ordered an old book from a catalogue, he
declined to refund the postage, observing that the
bookseller from whom he ordered received from
the dealer a commission which should cover any
charges of carriage. Not so bad for a poet, I
have often thought.

I end this chapter with an amusing example of
his more peculiar methods of transacting business.
He loathed coppers in change unless they were
quite new and bright. This dislike was not, I
imagine, mere caprice, but arose from that passion
for cleanliness which was part of his nature.
Coppers looked dirty, and probably were associated
in his mind with the dirty hands and dirty pockets
with which they had come into contact during
circulation. Now, he purchased at Wimbledon
every day a copy of the Daily Graphic. It was
not always convenient to buy five penny-worth
of something else and so make up the sum to six-
pence. So between them the accommodating
newsagent and the poet hit upon the following
device. On Monday morning Swinburne would
tender a sixpence for his daily newspaper, and the
vendor would give him in change five beautiful
new pennies. These he placed in a waistcoat
pocket by themselves and on each of the five

123

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

succeeding days of the week he would tender a
penny out of this reserve, which would of course
be exhausted on the Saturday. Then on the
following Monday a sixpence would again be
tendered, and a similar set of clean pennies be
given in change.

Swinburne's explanation to the newsvendor of
this method of purchase was softened by the
remark that the five pennies made a sort of coin-
calendar for the week. When the waistcoat
pocket was empty, he knew that the day was
Saturday and that the dreaded Sunday loomed
ahead.

A business man of sorts was the pOet, but
boy always.

124

CHAPTER XII

SWINBURNE'S HUMOUR

SAVE in the brilliant parodies collected in " The
Heptalogia," there is little trace of humour in
the poetry of Swinburne. Even in the dramas it is
very sparingly employed. His prose contains witty
passages and even a disguised " Limerick," yet
the general impression left by the perusal of
Swinburne's works is not that of a naturally
humorous person. The fact is, however, that he
possessed a keen sense of humour. Like his other
gifts, his humour was Swinburnian, in other words,
bis own. As I recall it now, it appears to have
bad three principal manifestations. There was his
mordant humour ; his playful humour ; his practical
humour.

I shall pass lightly over the first of these. It
was reserved for persons or things distasteful to
him. He was that " good hater " for whom Dr.

125

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Johnson professed a love. Indeed, I very much
question whether the great lexicographer ever met
a man quite as eloquent as Swinburne in the
expression of his hatred. I sometimes felt as I
heard him that he did not really hate the victim
so much as his language implied. When he
heartily meant his abuse, there was no mistaking
the animus behind his words. Picturesque,
extravagant, and full of unexpected phrases, his
denunciations were delightful to those whose
withers were not wrung. Often they would send
Walter and me into fits of laughter, laughter in
which the Bard would join with the utmost
abandon. These exhibitions of humorous wrath
were much less charming when they were made
in conversation with visitors. They had whatever
fun could be got out of his unsparing severity to
offending contemporaries, but they were not
regaled by any playfulness : they heard or saw
none of those inimitable imitations of the
idiosyncrasies of his victim which we of the house-
hold were privileged to enjoy. Before the
stranger within the gates he set bounds to his
fancies. With us he " let himself go."

I refrain from mentioning the names of persons
still living at whom he was accustomed to fling
his humorous gibes. But of those who have died

126

SWINBURNE'S HUMOUR

I may mention Mr. James Anthony Froude as
the subject of some of his most amusing outbursts.
Swinburne simply loathed Froude, and if ridicule
could kill, the eminent historian would have been
gathered to his fathers long before the date at
which he joined the great majority. I suppose
though the poet never actually said so that his
hatred of Froude was aroused originally by that
historian's description of the person and estimate
of the character of Mary, Queen of Scots.

Swinburne's playful humour was called forth
by incidents he witnessed during his morning
rambles and also by items in the daily papers. He
would hunt about in odd corners for those little

fill-up " paragraphs which the general reader is
apt to overlook. His " finds " in this field were an
unfailing source of interest and mirth. He would
rush down to us when he found something that
tickled his fancy, read out the precious paragraph,
fire off a humorous comment, and rush off again.

Nothing amused him more than the proceedings
of the Church Congress when that ecclesiastical
assembly held its meetings at the Albert Hall ;
or perhaps I should say that nothing amused him
so much as the letters appearing in the correspon-
dence columns of the Daily Telegraph commenting
on those proceedings. These letters were a real

127

joy to him day after day, and when they ceased
he was quite gloomy for a time. The letters from
curates on such subjects as " The Cure of Souls
and " Disheartened Clergy " he read and re-read.
He caught the ordinary Oxford-bred curate's
brassy tone with wonderful accuracy. I can recall
even now his rendering of a passage from a corres-
pondent who was not a clergyman. Swinburne
gave it out with a wicked joyousness. The writer
said : " There are rectors who in a very few years
have contrived to make almost every member of
their flock hate the inside of a Church."

When I complimented A. C. S. on his really fine
imitation of a priest intoning, " Did you not
know," he asked, " that I disappointed my family
by not entering the Church ? Can you not imagine
Walter and myself in Holy Orders?" this with a
perfectly idiotic sigh. It struck me at the moment
as being merely a joke. Walter subsequently
informed me, however, that it was a statement of
sober truth. The Church, I am sure, did not lose
much ; and the world has gained, inter alia) the
'' Hymn to Proserpine," which would scarcely
have been in good taste had it come from the study
of a curate, in spite of the fact that we are indebted
to a Catholic priest for the beautiful story of
" Manon Lescaut."

128

SWINBURNE'S HUMOUR

By Swinburne's practical humour I do not mean
elaborated practical joking of the kind that
Theodore Hook and E. A. Sothern indulged in.
Swinburne's practical jokes usually took a literary
turn. I select a couple of examples, in both of
which his object was apparently to excite my sur-
prise and curiosity concerning something which in
itself was not likely to arouse emotion of any sort.

The first of these jokes occurred some time after
my marriage, when the poet and I were on
perfectly easy terms. He came downstairs one
evening holding a little book. He seldom arrived
without a book, big or little, in his hand. He
proposed to read to us from " The Seven Poor
Travellers ' ' of Dickens. Swinburne's face was
much more easy to read than some of the books on
his shelves. 'And it was not difficult to see now
that there was mischief of some sort brewing.
There was an air of mystery about him as he
glanced with a sly expression from Walter to me.
In this instance it was not with me a case of
" forewarned, forearmed." The joke came off, and
I was fairly " had " as Cockneys say.

He opened the little book and made what
lecturers call " a few preliminary remarks " on
the peculiar merits of " The Seven Poor
Travellers " and the brutal density of readers of

I 129

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Dickens who know nothing of this wonderful little
work of his. The ignorance of the average reader
did not appear to me so extraordinary when he told
us that the work consisted of eight chapters the
first and the last being by Charles Dickens and
the other six by members of the staff of Household
Wards, of which " The Seven Poor Travellers "
was issued as a Christmas number. George
'Augustus Sala and Wilkie Collins were among the
contributors. Both these writers were favourites
with the poet. For Sala's work he always pro-
fessed a tremendous admiration a circumstance
which will come as a blow to those devotees who
picture the Bard as eternally wallowing either in
Hugo or in Elizabethan and Jacobean drama. And
a sight of the rows of " yellow backs " in
Swinburne's bedroom would probably have
horrified those who imagined that only " the old
nobility " of the world of books was interesting
to him.

To return, however, to my anecdote : having
concluded his prefatory remarks, Swinburne began
to read. The opening sentence to " The Seven
Poor Travellers " goes thus :

Strictly speaking there were only six Poor Travellers;
but being a traveller myself, though an idle one, and being
withal as poor as I hope to be, I brought the number up

130

SWINBURNE'S HUMOUR

to seven. This word of explanation is due at once, for
what says the inscription over the quaint old door?

RICHARD WATTS, ESQ.,

by his Will dated 22 Aug. 1597

founded this charity

for Six Poor Travellers,

who not being ROGUES or PROCTORS,

May secure gratis for one NIGHT

Lodging, Entertainment,

and Four pence each.

All this elaborate prefacing, this air of mystifica-
tion seemed to enhance the effect of a substitution
of One Christian name for another in the first line
of the inscription relating to the charity of the
eccentric Rochester testator. Swinburne paused
before he perpetrated his joke. A flush appeared
on his cheeks. His eyes twinkled. Then he
uttered the words " Walter Watts." I confess
I was completely taken in. I was in no sense of
the word a Dickensian ; and before Swinburne
read it, was utterly ignorant of " The Seven Poor
Travellers."

Taking his manner in connection with the matter
which he had read to us, I came to the conclusion
that the Walter Watts of the altered inscription
was some ancestor of the Walter Theodore Watts
to whom I was married the very misconception

131

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

which Swinburne meant to create. His joke
having succeeded, he took no further liberties
with Dickens's text. It was not until Swinburne
left the room that I discovered how he had
imposed upon me.

The Bard's second attempt to get off a little joke
at my expense was not so successful as its fore-
runner. One day Walter asked me to read out
to him from " Chambers's Cyclopsedia of English
Literature " the account given of Maturin, the
author of " Melmoth the Wanderer." I had just
finished doing this when Swinburne came into the
room. He looked over my shoulder to see what
I had been reading. His eye caught, on the top
of the page preceding that upon which I had been
at work, the name Matthew Gregory Lewis.
Instead of plunging into the merits and demerits
of " Melmoth," as I had half expected he would
have done, he politely asked me to give him the
volume. As he took it, he said, " I should so
much like to read you the most wonderful ballad
of the Eighteenth Century." I professed myself
delighted and was preparing myself for the enjoy-
ment of an intellectual treat. However, I noticed
that the two friends exchanged glances. My
husband had his tongue in his cheek, and
Swinburne's eyes were beginning to dance with

132

SWINBURNE'S HUMOUR

mischief. I recognised the symptoms. Experience
had made me wary. I was not to be " had " a
second time.

As was his wont he began with a little prelude.
He explained the properties of the ballad, and
desired that in listening to this example of ballad
literature I should pay particular attention to the
awful fate that overtook the heroine. I dare say
a good many readers know the poem. Some of
them, perhaps, like it. But few, I imagine, ever
got a tenth part of the fun out of it that Swinburne
did on that occasion. His only failure was in
pretending that he was dealing with " the most
wonderful ballad of the Eighteenth Century."
For I knew " Alonzo the Brave and the
Fair Imogene " perfectly well, and, with all my
limitations, was capable of noting the difference
between the dross and the gold of literature.
Swinburne exhibited unbounded humour in his
delivery of this grotesquely sensational poem. As
its vogue is over, I quote two of its seventeen
stanzas. The ballad begins :

A warrior so bold, and a virgin so bright,

Conversed as they sat on the green;
They gazed on each other with tender delight :
Alonzo the Brave was the name of the Knight

The maiden's the Fair Imogene.
133

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

And this is the last stanza :

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,

Dancing round them the spectres are seen ;
Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave
They howl : " To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his consort, the Fair Imogene."

"Monk" Lewis here brought gruesomeness to
a climax. His ballad naturally lends itself to
burlesque, and in burlesque I first made its
acquaintance. But no burlesque of this " most
.wonderful ballad " could outdo Swinburne's serio-
comic rendering. He seemed to revel in the grim
idiocy of Lewis's incidents and situations. He
had enough sympathy with the macabre to take
some gruesome stories seriously ; but Alonzo and
Imogene were altogether too much for his sense
of the ludicrous to remain dormant under the pro-
vocation of their remarkable woes. The tone he
adopted in rendering the lines which he most
desired to ridicule resembled the peculiar unctuous
drawl of an intoning curate the long O's being
dwelt on and drawn out in a highly diverting
manner.

He achieved a tour de force in the recitation of
the crowning stanza, which he made a crescendo
of gruesome horror. I shall never forget that

134

SWINBURNE'S HUMOUR

amazing performance. The Bard as an entertainer
was at his best. The accidental nature of the
reading increased its charm. I never heard him
revert to Lewis's ballad again ; but this single
recitation was enough to prove to me beyond all
doubt that Swinburne's sense of humour was
exceptionally keen and alert.

135

CHAPTER XIII

I

SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN

ANY description of the home life of Swinburne
that omitted to mention Dickens, would be
grievously incomplete. The author of the
"Pickwick Papers" was simply adored by the
poet, who was as much at extremes in his admira-
tions as in his dislikes. My husband also admired
the great Victorian novelist's works, though in a
less ardent degree. Thus, during my married life,
I lived more or less in a Dickens atmosphere, but
I was born more than a decade too late to share
the enthusiasm of those who read Dickens while
he was still alive. I had escaped the glamour
which "the inimitable" shed upon contempor-
aries. I belong to a generation which has set up
other demigods, the worship of whom would be
regarded by the true Dickensian as mere idolatry.
Nevertheless, I can understand the devotional

136

SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN

enthusiasm of those who lived while Dickens was
still writing, putting forth as he himself
expressed it his two green leaves a month. They
would feel, as younger people could not, the truth
to life of Dickens's characters, and the realism of
the descriptions of scenes which have changed.
The great " Dust Heap " of oblivion which, like
Mr. Boffin's mounds, are supposed to contain so
much that is valuable, is not a dust heap to every-
body. The contemporaries of Dickens breathed
his atmosphere. We others are mentally too
removed from it to enjoy it as perhaps it deserves.
Unfortunately the Dickens readings to which
Swinburne so insistently treated us were not at all
calculated to create an enthusiasm. Even his
recitation of the dialogues between Sarah Gamp
and Betsy Prig failed to move me and the amours
of Mrs. Corney and the Beadle left me cold. At
school I had gone through a course of elocution.
I had " taken " to it, and was reported by my
instructor to show unusual aptitude. Therefore,
my attitude to reciters was, in a way, that of an
expert. When I found that, in his rendering of
Dickens, A. C. S. ruthlessly disregarded all the
rules of the game as I had been taught to play it,
I was first surprised, then bored, but finally such
is the influence of a remarkable person, apart from

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

the success or failure of ,what he happens to be
doing when one observes him I became inter-
ested.

Swinburne's voice was curiously unsuited to the
interpretation of Dickens. I was amazed to read
that he possessed a "rich contralto! ' To my
thinking the quality of his voice was distinctly
male, verging on falsetto when he was excited and
on its high notes. At its best, it was musical
and sometimes tender. He did not command
many tones, and his voice, in later life at any rate,
had an ineradicable metallic quality which inter-
fered with its flexibility. And when the reader
was carried away by the pathos or the passion or
the rollicking humour of his author, he had
a tendency to rise to a kind of involuntary shriek,
unpleasant to hear.

I confess that I went through a stage of boredom
during these readings from Dickens one might
almost say, these Dickensian devotions. Happily
this stage did not last long. The unalloyed satis-
faction, sometimes intensified to obvious rapture,
which the reading of his favourite writer of fiction
gave the poet, evoked a sympathetic response from
his audience of two One could not witness his

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SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN

excessive affection for the Dickens characters
without being moved by a kindred feeling. In
spite of his natural defects as an elocutionist,
Swinburne's peculiar manner of reading grew
upon you. You endured, you tolerated, and at
last you enjoyed and looked forward to it.

Moreover, his elocutionary exhibitions gave me
furiously to think. How came it that a man of
Swinburne's temperament, tastes, classical equip-
ment, and high poetic achievement should have
come so completely under the thraldom of
Dickens ? What in the name of wonder could the
author of "Atalanta in Calydon ' and "Ave
atque Vale " have in common with the writer of
" Martin Chuzzlewit " and the " Pickwick
Papers ' ' ?

Some minor resemblances I have not failed to
note. Both these great writers, for instance,
wrote from time to time in dramatic form.
Neither wrote successfully for the stage. Here
let me point out that it has been stated that
" Locrine " was the only work by Swinburne to
be played in his lifetime, whereas the fact is that
" Atalanta " was staged in 1907, although he
himself took precious little interest in the
production. It is quite true that in his later years
A. C. S. disclaimed any desire to see his plays

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

staged. Almost the only time that I knew him
to be cross with me was in connection with his
uncomplimentary attitude to the theatre. He had
been reading to me from " The Duke of
Gandia," and when he came to the culminating
point of the wonderful last act, I could not help
exclaiming, "What a splendid curtain!' He
put down the book, regarded me freezingly, and
said in a tone of grave rebuke, " I never write for
the stage." I knew him pretty well by this time.
I knew all about the attempt that had been made
to get " Bothwell " acted had indeed pored over
a copy of that work which had been cut about,
altered, and enriched by stage directions. So I
did not take the rebuke lying down. On the
contrary, I stood up to the poet, argued the point
with him, and saw his little mood of irritation pass
and his old boyish spirit return. He was quite
abashed at having had the temerity to rebuke me,
and when I told him that both Walter and I con-
sidered " Chastelard ' had splendid dramatic
moments and ought to be put on the boards, he
looked extremely pleased and never attempted to
contradict me.

Both Dickens and Swinburne loved an audience.
Swinburne would go on reading to an audience of
two persons for hours. Dickens, as is well known,

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SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN

made large sums of money by his public readings.
The difference between the readers was of course
greatly in favour of the novelist. Dickens was a
born actor. His voice, we have been told, was
capable of wonderful inflections and his mastery
over the sympathies of his audience magnetic
and irresistible. Almost all that Dickens was
in this respect Swinburne was not. But the
attitude towards the audience in both men was
the same.

What are known as " socialistic leanings '
characterised both the novelist and the poet. Both
had ideals and envisaged a socialism that would
ameliorate the condition of the poor without
putting an undue strain on the social system as
it exists. And I imagine that the socialism both
of Dickens and Swinburne was founded quite as
much on hatred of the rich as on affection for the
needy. They both harboured unkindly feelings
towards the w r ealthy. Dickens has revealed his
attitude in Podsnap, Parsons, Mr and Mrs. Merdle
and Bounderby. He had no use whatever for
plutocrats, unless, like the Cheeryble Brothers in
" Nicholas Nickleby," they distributed their gains
to the deserving poor. But Swinburne's detesta-
tion of the rich was founded on no excessive
love for their less fortunate brothers. In

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

principle he made common cause with the
proletariat. In practice the needs of the people
troubled him no more than the claims of the
equator. His abstract hatred of rich men was,
however, very real. He would, if the man
possessed compensating qualities, just tolerate the
inheritor of riches. But for the citizen who had
made money in trade or in the city he harboured
the feeling of deadly malevolence. Some of the
most eloquent denunciatory outbursts I have heard
from him were on this subject. He did not value
money himself. He detested all those who did.

Perhaps the reader will be inclined to smile when
I say that another point of resemblance between
Swinburne and Dickens is that both the great
.writers were poets. True, Dickens was a poet only
in a small way, and I do not rest his poetic claim on
his occasional lyrics * ' The Ivy Green ' ' for
example but on his prose. Here he sang uncon-
sciously. One has only to read the account of the
funeral of Little Nell in "The Old Curiosity Shop"
to be assured of this. It is rhythmical throughout,
and with very slight alteration could be arranged
to run its course in blank verse. This was pointed
out to me by my husband. I have, I confess,
never heard Swinburne's views on the subject. But
it is reasonable to infer that the rhythmical quality

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SWINBURNE AT THE AGE OF FOUR

SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN

of much of Dickens's prose appealed to the Bard
and cemented the sympathy which he extended
to everything Dickens wrote.

In English fiction Dickens was his first love.
In that small space of his life covered by his
expression " When I was a kid at Eton," the
time during which the Master was still putting out
his " two green leaves " a month, he came under
the Dickens spell, and he remained under it to the
last. He had the same sort of affection if lessen
degree for Dickens that he entertained for thosev v
members of his family who were the companions \
of his boyhood. He admired Scott. He venerated
Hugo. He loved Dickens.

I agree with those critics who regard Swin-
burne's book, " Charles Dickens," as an unsatis-
factory performance. It could scarcely be anything
else, made up, as it is, of two " commissioned '
articles. It does not adequately inform us of the
writer's preferences. It is not a scientific piece
of criticism. It is literary adulation eloquent,
interesting, but hardly illuminative. One or two
examples of critical insight redeem the essay. He
thinks, for instance, that Little Nell in " The Old
Curiosity Shop " and Oliver Twist in the novel of

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

the same name are too good to be true to nature.
Oliver, indeed, he dismisses as " rather too like
the literary son and heir of a maiden lady."

Sarah Gamp was one of his prime favourites.
He revelled in her conversational eccentricities. It
mattered not how often her aphorisms were quoted
by him, they never failed to excite him to ecstasies
of mirth. One passage was a particular favourite
of his. I can hear him now repeating it, and I
can catch an echo of the unrestrained laughter that
followed its delivery. I confess it always failed to
tickle my own sense of humour. This is the passage :
" ' I have know'd that sweetest and best of women/
said Mrs. Gamp, shaking her head and shedding
tears, ' ever since afore her First, which Mr.
Harris who was dreadful timid went and stopped
his ears in a empty dog-kennel, and never took his
hands away or come out once till he was showed
the baby, wen bein' took with fits, the doctor
collared him and laid him on his back upon the airy
stones, and she was told to ease her mind, his owls
was organs.' I accustomed myself to join in th(
laughter that followed the recitation, feeling al
the while that I was an awful hypocrite. For
time the cryptic statement " his owls was organs '
interested me. But Walter translated the sentence
into English for me, and after that, even the owls

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SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN

and organs failed to stir me to the slightest
enthusiasm.

Wilkins Micawber and Dick Swiveller were
persons whose views and adventures possessed an
unfailing attraction for the poet. He seemed to
regard them rather as friends with whom he had
been associated all his life than as mere dramatis
personss in works of fiction. When he referred
to them, it was as though he were speaking of
living contemporaries. But of all the characters
in the whole range of the Dickens creation none
appealed so surely and directly to Swinburne's
sense of humour as one who never appears in
person on the novelist's stage who is heard of
but never seen. I refer to Old Bill Barley in
" Great Expectations." Bill Barley, it will be
remembered, is a bed-ridden old blasphemer "with
the gout in his right hand and everywhere else."
' Old Barley's sustained growl vibrated in the
beam that crossed the ceiling." ..." The
growl swelled into a roar again and a frightful
bumping noise was heard above, as if a giant with
a wooden leg was trying to bore it through the
ceiling to come at us."

The particular passage that Swinburne loved to
repeat and how often I have heard him ! was
this : " As we passed Mr. Barley's door, he was

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

heard hoarsely muttering within, in a strain that
rose and fell like the wind, the following refrain,
in which I substitute good wishes for something
quite the reverse : 'Ahoy ! Bless your eyes,
here's old Bill Barley. Here's old Bill Barley,
bless your eyes. Here's old Bill Barley on the
flat of his back, by the Lord. Lying on the flat
of his back, like a drifting old dead flounder,
here's your old Bill Barley, bless your eyes. Ahoy !
Bless you ! ' Swinburne used to give this with
immense unction and emphasis, supplying in place
of the innocuous " Bless you ' the form of
objurgation which old Bill Barley may have been
supposed to employ. In Bill Barley, Swinburne
had probably encountered a kindred spirit, for as I
have already said, his own vituperative vocabulary
was most picturesque and was practically unlimited.
But with the magnanimity of true genius he
permitted Bill Barley to "go one better."
Whenever he had finished his rendering of Barley's
comminatory growl, he invariably indulged in
warmly appreciative comments, such as, " What a
wealth of language!" "How wonderful!"
' What a magnificent gift of metaphor ! ' It was
impossible to say how much of this commendation
was intended to be taken seriously. But his
affection for the gouty old reprobate was unaffected

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SWINBURNE THE DICKENSIAN

and sincere, and the Bill Barley monologue was
one of Swinburne's most cherished "bits."

If Bill Barley was the character most endeared
to A. C. S., the novel in which Barley appears
or rather in which he does not appear was his
favourite book of the Dickens series. He greatly
loved " David Copperfield," but on the whole he
perhaps admired most " Great Expectations."
And there is a great deal to be said in favour of
Swinburne's choice. The monstrously unnatural
figure and absurdly unconvincing surroundings of
Miss Havisham, overshadow the pages and give
an air of unreality to the whole narrative. But
take out Miss Havisham altogether and enough
remains to justify and account for Swinburne's
preference. Jaggers and Wemmick, Joe Gargery,
and Mr. Pumblechook, Orlick and Magwitch
these are creations worthy of a great novelist.
And the story itself shows evidences of constructive
power which seem to me to be singularly absent in
those earlier works of Dickens which are considered
his best. The narrative proceeds without prolixity
and has artistic merits which are relatively rare.
On the whole then, Swinburne's selection of
" Great Expectations " is justifiable.

147

CHAPTER XIV

CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

IN this chapter I will endeavour to describe my first
Christmas (that of 1905) at The Pines in the com-
pany of Algernon Swinburne, and as it resembles
other equally joyous Christmases spent under the
same roof, this one may be'regarded'as typical of all.

Alas ! my inability to use more than a tyro's
skill in painting my picture demands that the
reader shall use his own imagination to assist him
to visualise a scene worthy of the pen of Dickens
himself. Indeed my recollection of Christmas at
The Pines mainly concerns the influence that " the
Master " exercised in our household at and about
December 25th.

We had a perfect glut of Dickens then. To
me it was a revelation : the idolatry by two poets
of a personage whom I only knew through the
medium of two or three novels. To Swinburne

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

and Walter, Dickens stood for the very spirit of
Christmas itself, and everything they did, and a
great deal they said, echoed the feelings with which
he animated them.

Sometimes I ask myself which of the two
friends did the most in bringing the Dickens
atmosphere into the home. One thing is clear :
Swinburne was mad I can use no other term
about nearly everything that Dickens wrote.
When he was regaling us with " Martin
Chuzzlewit " it was apparent that he knew long
passages of it by heart, so little did he seem to rely
on the book open before him.

Walter, with less exuberance, shared Swinburne's
admiration, and it was chiefly owing to his desire
to gratify his housemate and at the same time to
honour the famous dead, that the Christmas anni-
versary at The Pines became a Dickens festival.
Though Swinburne enjoyed it all, he was certainly
not the magician who permeated our home with
the Christmassy atmosphere of revelry. I cannot
picture him paying homage to Dickens by
planning a Christmas programme according to the
traditions of Boz. It was Walter who kept the
torch of good fellowship burning, and who so it
seemed to me was symbolical of the genial Mr.
Wardle of "Pickwick."

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It was for me very new and wonderful, this idea
of celebrating Christmas in the good old-fashioned
manner, hitherto only known to me by what I had
read in books or seen illustrated in the Christmas
annuals. And this idea of bringing in Dickens
a genial ghost as the presiding genius, seemed
to me delightfully unique.

Strangely enough, the zest of the two friends
in Christmas was just as keen as when they first
celebrated it at The Pines in precisely the same
way twenty-six years before. Here, in 1879, as
they stood together before the Christmas tree of
little five-year old Bertie Mason,* they both
vowed that whatever of good br ill-fortune the
passing year had brought to them, Christmas
would always find them young in heart and
spirit.

Walter wrote a sonnet to celebrate the occasion,
and as it; describes far more clearly than I can in
what attitude of mind both Swinburne and he
regarded the closing of the passing year, I quote
it here :

Life still hath one romance that naught can bury
Not Time himself, who coffins Life's romances
For still will Christmas gild the year's mischances,

If Childhood comes, as here, to make him merry

* The hero of Swinburne's " Dark Month."
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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

To kiss with lips more ruddy than the cherry
To smile with eyes outshining by their glances
The Christmas tree to dance with fairy dances

And crown his hoary head with leaf and berry.

And as for us, dear friend, the carols sung
Are fresh as ever. Bright is yonder bough

Of mistletoe as that which shone and swung
When you and I and Friendship made a vow
That Childhood's Christmas still should seal each brow

Friendship's, and yours, and mine and keep us young.

This vow the poets had literally and spiritually
kept, and the festival was looked forward to by
them with a joy resembling that of a schoolboy
home for the holidays. The delights of anticipa-
tion were apparent in their childlike demeanour ;
the years were rolled behind them, and many traits
of the boy peeped out in them at this season.
They were never too old for Santa Claus.

As the season advanced Swinburne would notice
during his walks if the holly trees promised a good
supply of red berries. If they did, he would remark
with all the glee of a ten-year old youngster, " I
expect there'll be a lovely lot of berries on the
holly this Christmas.''

One fact that made this particular Christmas
stand out for me in bold and happy relief was that
it was the Christmas directly after my marriage,

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

which had only taken place in the preceding month.
Oh ! the delights of shopping with Walter in the
late December afternoons. My mind, reverting
to them, brings back a score of golden memories.
It was at dusk when the shops are brilliantly lighted
that he preferred to saunter with me in busy and
crowded Oxford Street and Regent Street. Many
a precious hour did we waste gazing into shop
windows at the temptations offered to our purse ;
but we voted the time well spent, and Walter con-
sidered it part of my education as a budding
Dickensian to observe and take full advantage of
the interesting scenes going on around us.

As we marched gaily along, he regaled me with
anecdotes of Old Scrooge and Bob Cratchit, so
that I could mentally see these Christmas creations
of the Master's fancy. Walter amused himself
by imagining whence the people came whom we
saw staring at the shops. These, he would say,
were from the country ; those from the East End ;
in each case the West End was their paradise of
sightseeing. When we came across a shabby man
accompanied by a swarm of children whose noses
were glued to a shop window, he would nudge my
arm and remark, " Look, there goes the worthy
Bob and the little Cratchits."

There was fun, too, in returning home in the

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

evening with our purchases, and finding Swinburne
placidly ensconced in his cosy sitting-room, quite
unaware that all the afternoon we had formed a
part of London's jostling crowd of shoppers. To
imagine him one of them was impossible. Never-
theless, he did do Christmas shopping, though not
with crowds. He did it in his own leisurely way.
For years he pursued the same course, going about
it calmly and methodically in easy stages during
his walks to Wimbledon.

As Christmas approached he selected with great
care the gifts and cards he intended for his friends
and relations. There was something rather
charming about this proceeding on the part of
one who so heartily detested writing letters or
transacting business of any sort. He even found a
keen pleasure in his Christmas shopping, and gave
himself a lot of trouble about it. He never thought
of adopting the modern habit of ordering so many
dozens of the same card with the sender's name
and address printed thereon. On the contrary,
he made a distinct choice in the purchase of each
individual card.

In his arduous task he invariably called upon
Miss Frost of the Wimbledon book-shop to assist
him. He would sally forth across the Common,
the end he had in view imparting a spice of mystery

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

and adventure to his walk. We were not
supposed to know what was going on, and it was
not until the day before Christmas that anybody
knew the nature of his purchases. Then he would
gleefully show what he had been at such pains to
procure. He would show me first the Christmas
card he had got for Walter, asking me meanwhile
not to tell him. In a like manner he would tell
Walter not to say a word that he had also got one
for me " hidden up his sleeve."

He always seemed quite pleased with everything
he had bought, yet he appeared uncertain as to
what the recipient would think of the little gifts.
He would enquire anxiously, " Do you think he "
(or " she " as the case might be) " will like it? "
On being reassured on this head, he would give a
little satisfied sigh, as if the question were quite
momentous, and murmur with relief, " Oh, I'm
so glad you think so too ! "

I remember once how excited he was about a
card he had bought for Walter. No child could
have looked more pleased at finding the toy he had
sighed for in his "Christmas stocking." It was
a tiny reproduction of Turner's " Fighting
Temeraire tugged to her last berth to be broken
up." Swinburne's joy at having secured it was
something to remember. He was as pleased

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

as Punch. His amazement at seeing one of
his favourite pictures beautifully printed on a
fourpenny card was unbounded, and his exclama-
tions of surprise were astonishing. He wanted
to know how it could possibly be done for
the money, and deemed himself fortunate in
obtaining such a bargain. " I wonder what
Walter will say about it? " he exclaimed. "I
think it is a perfect little masterpiece. I do hope
he will like it," etc., etc. These ecstatic phrases
were repeated as he gazed at his prize. Even in
the matter of choosing Christmas cards as in the
case of babies and "the insuperable sea," he
showed a curious tendency to believe that every-
body's tastes must coincide with his own. Because
he adored the sea, he imagined all the Universe
must do likewise, and he rarely bought a card that
did not bear witness to the fact ; he once declared
in a letter to Clarence Stedman, when speaking of
this passion, " Its salt must have been in my blood
before I was born."

At Christmas time the little shop at Wimbledon
was crowded with customers, so the poet would
make straight for the owner's private parlour
adjoining. Here, secure from interruption and
offensive observation, he would sit at a table
apart, and leisurely turn over the cards on a tray

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

set before him. " Show me anything with ships
on it," he would say ; and if by some lucky chance
a ship in full sail ploughing the main revealed itself,
it was seized upon with avidity and borne off in
triumph. But he was not always successful in
procuring just what he wanted ; and when the card-
trays failed to yield the harvest he desired, he
would abruptly leave his seat and stalk out of the
parlour, murmuring to Miss Fost as he passed
through the shop, " I don't see anything else I
like." Next day he would return and enthusias-
tically resume the search, hopeful, as his friend
Micawber of immortal memory, of " something
turning up."

But Swinburne's quest for cards was a small
affair compared with the far more enthralling and
important task of selecting Christmas presents.
These nearly always took the form of books, which,
by the way, he was apt to bestow on his favourites
at any time in the year. But at Christmas he
let himself go with a lavish hand and always
chose expensive books. If an attractive book was
displayed on Miss Frost's counter, it did not
require much conjecture on the part of the book-
seller as to who would be likely to buy it. Directly
the poet entered he was automatically attracted
towards It. He would take it up, and after looking

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

through it attentively for a while he would say,
"This is very nice. I'll take it." But when
it came to choosing anything for Walter he was
seriously perplexed. He had given that man of
innumerable books almost every work he cared to
add to such a collection, and it was really difficult
to think of something for him which would not be
like coals sent to Newcastle. For weeks before
Christmas, Swinburne would try to ascertain by all
manner of ingenious little devices what book or
books would be welcome to Walter. He would
pore over catalogues in the hope of finding some
treasure he thought might take his friend's fancy.

I can see him now, catalogue in hand, with his
finger on the page containing the descriptions of
the book he had in mind, his face lit up with the
hope that his question, " What do you think of
that ? ' ' would produce a response favourable to his
meditative generosity. But one Christmas a
surprise awaited Walter. His present was not a
book this time !

On one of his pilgrimages Swinburne had espied
a bust of his beloved Dickens modelled in wax
hanging up in Miss Frost's shop. It was mounted
on a background of blue in a circular black frame.
Could he but succeed in obtaining it, a load would
be taken off his mind, and the problem of what

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

to buy Walter for a Christmas present would be
at once removed. As he gazed with longing eyes
towards the coveted object, he became positively
fidgety to buy it. If the proprietor would part
with it, it must become his. Yes, it was for sale,
he was told. " How much? " enquired the poet,
thinking that such a treasure ought to be procured
regardless of cost. Four-and-sixpence was the
price demanded. " I'll take it with me now,"
eagerly replied the poet as he at once closed with
the offer.

The eulogies exchanged between the giver and
the receiver when the waxen Dickens was
produced on Christmas Day, fully repaid the poet
for his trouble. Walter was delighted with it.
If it had cost its weight in gold it could not have
been more appreciated. I sometimes look at it
now as a memento of never-to-be-forgotten days !

Whatever Christmas appeals came to Swin-
burne's notice, none received more prompt
attention than that of a certain Society for aiding
Seamen. Forgetful and absent-minded as he was
about mundane affairs and he included the
operation of filling in cheques among the curses
that beset mankind he never allowed this appeal

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

to escape his memory. In fact, at Christmas it
was uppermost in his mind. Whether it was due
to a sense of duty or of pleasure I do not pretend
to say, but the sending of his contribution to his
" Mariners," as he used to call his beneficiaries,
never irked him in the least. After he had written
his cheque, he would come downstairs and
announce to Walter in a pleased and happy voice,
"Here's my cheque for the 'Mariners!' I'm
going to send it off now so that it will get there
in good time." After Swinburne died this duty
devolved on Walter, and although Isabel (Miss
Swinburne) would write to remind either Walter
or me not to forget "Algernon's Mariners," my
husband was always the first to remember it, and
however busy he might happen to be, "Algernon's
cheque " was always despatched.

Towards December 25th almost every day
brought bulky and interesting packages from
friends of either Swinburne or Walter. These
.would often be opened by me, and sometimes the
contents proved both surprising and amusing.

The turkey deserves a special notice and a

description of this prepossessing bird may divert

the reader, for it stands out in the annals of

' Turkeydom ' as a unique specimen differing

from any other of its kind in one unusual

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

particular. It was a veritable plutocrat in
appearance and half covered with gold ! Shorn
of feathers and hanging up in a poulterer's
shop in the cold staring immodesty of the
" altogether," a turkey is by no means a pleasing
or edifying-looking object to the artistic eye,
although from a gastronomic point of view it makes
quite a different appeal. But the " gilded fowl '
that annually came as a present from Lady
Leighton Warren the sister of the poet Lord de
Tabley was a very superior spectacle. When it
came it was paraded round the house as a huge
joke, and I christened it " Midas." Pinned to its
breast were many " orders " rosettes of ribbon
of divers hues, and the head, feet and scaly shanks,
and the whole of its long, hideous, fleshy pro-
tuberance of mottled red and blue neck were
discreetly covered by a thick layer of gold paint.

Lying in state in a box lined with frilled pink
and white paper, and decked out with all the finery
of festoons of variegated holly and sprigs of mistle-
toe, the recumbent scion of a noble house looked
almost too gorgeous to be eaten.

For the purpose of buying Swinburne's present,
Walter and I decided that a final rampage would

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

prove an interesting wind-up to a busy week. We
didn't know what to give the poet, and on
Christmas Eve when it was growing quite late, we
happened to be passing Buszard's in Oxford Street,
and seeing a large printed card in the window
bearing the inscription " Partridge Pies ' we
entered the shop and Walter asked for one.

The place resembled a bee-hive, so crowded
was it with late shoppers. A harassed-looking
assistant came forward and conducted us to a
counter where wonderful erections, like miniature
haystacks, were on view. We chose a medium-
sized one for our joint present to Algernon, and
while it was being packed up, Walter walked to
another part of the shop and came back to where
I was sitting, bearing in his hands a box of crackers.
; Who on earth have you bought those for? " I
enquired, for I considered crackers quite a
ridiculous institution, and never intended buying
any. " Not for you, 9 ' he retorted with an
amused chuckle, and an accent on the pronoun.
4 I know you are far too old for that sort of
thing, so I've bought them for somebody who
will appreciate them, and you'll see who that is
to-morrow !

Our chief concern now was the safe transit of
the pie. As it made a heavy parcel, we carried

L 161

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

it in turns, and while I was custodian of the
crackers, Walter was responsible for the pie and
vice versa. In this manner we arrived home,
happy and hungry, to find that quite a transfor-
mation had been effected during our absence. The
house was gay with decorations, and I must say
that at The Pines we were not satisfied with half-
hearted exhibitions of festivity. There was always
a great piece of mistletoe hanging in the hall, and
even the staircase and passages were decorated.
The " Christmassy " look of the home at this
festive season enhanced by holly and mistletoe
reaching nearly to the ceiling and adorning every
picture frame, delighted the Bard.

Whilst we were dining, a loud peal at the front
door-bell resounded along the hall. It surely
could not be the " Waits " the two or three
wretched urchins who call themselves " carol
singers " would not ring until they had finished
afflicting us with " When Shepherds watch their
flocks by night," and similar dirges, for dirges they
were as tortured by these dreadful small boys.
Our surmise was correct ; the boys were still sing-
ing through the letter-box in their high treble
voices, and the maid came in with the announce-
ment that Mr. Macllvaine's butler had just left
a big box with his master's compliments.

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

This friend, knowing the predilections of the
housemates for anything savouring of Christmas
had always endeavoured to make his present
appropriate to the occasion. He certainly
achieved a coup this time. When the box was
opened, it revealed a Yule log. It was made of
some kind of composition or papier mache, and
hollowed out so that it could be lighted up inside.
1 determined to use it as a table decoration on
the morrow. This was a happy thought, for
Swinburne was charmed with it.

Christmas Day, as is usual in this country of
topsy-turvy climatic conditions, was muggy and
warmish, instead of the hoped-for cold and frosty
morning. This did not please Swinburne at all.
He resented any whimsical vagaries on the part
of the Clerk of the Weather. He declared at such
times he was being cheated out of his rights.
What would have pleased him was the scene of the
Christmas card of childhood's tradition, a land-
scape covered with snow, trees clothed in a frosty
mantle, icicles hanging from the water-spouts, and
all the rest of the paraphernalia of an old-fashioned
winter. W^hen it was "blowing great guns" he was
happy, and cold weather so exhilarated him that
had there been a snowstorm, and he unable to be
out in it, he would have suffered like Tantalus.

163

It did not, however, really matter to the poet
what the weather was on Christmas Day. At the
best of times, the Sabbath Day was by no means
calculated to make his heart rejoice, for on that
day he was deprived of his usual walk, and on that
account alone he heartily detested it. Wimbledon
Common, on week-days so restful and unpopu-
lated, was invariably thronged on Sundays and
at holiday times. Swinburne never crossed the
threshold then, but remained indoors, a very
uneasy victim until the crowds had disappeared and
left him free to enjoy his walk in peace and quiet.

With Christmas Day and Boxing Day the
prospect of " half a week of Sundays " had to be
faced with as much resolution as the poet could
muster. So with the characteristic fortitude of
a Mark Tapley, he prepared to make the best of
it and took credit in being jolly.

The arrival of the postman proved a diversion,
and his budget of cards never failed to amuse him.
Naturally he got a goodly supply from strangers.
What became of these latter, I cannot say. They
disappeared and that is all one knew of them.
But cards from relatives and intimate friends
adorned his mantlepiece for days. These messages
of goodwill always contained some allusion to his
two pet subjects the sea and the children ; and

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

Walter responded to Swinburne's gift of a
pictured ship by one at the New Year of a pictured
baby. It is before me now as I write :

To the Child-lover A. C. S.

From T. Watts-Dunton, New Year's Day, 1906.

On this same occasion a great triumph was
secured by the poet's sister, Isabel, who had the
happy thought of presenting her brother with a
set of reproductions of the ten Bambini by Andrea
della Robbia which ornaments the front of the
Ospedale degli Innocenti (Foundling Hospital) at
Florence.

These quaintly swaddled little boys are not
of equal attractiveness, though doubtless all
are beautiful examples of skill in modelling.
But Swinburne was enthusiastic about them
all. He had seen the originals in Italy,
and as he showed the little pictures one after
another, he could not make up his mind
which baby bore off the palm for beauty.
How small a thing can gladden the heart of
a great man, and for the time being the Bambini
made him forget it was a sort of Sunday and
that there was no going out for him. As it
happened, he managed to fill in his day quite
comfortably. There were always his books his

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

solace and his delight to browse on. Moreover,
there were several chapters from "A Christmas
Carol " to be rehearsed for the Dickens reading in
the evening, and he devoted some time to getting
as near word-perfect as possible. As I have
mentioned, I was astonished when I first heard
him read " Martin Chuzzlewit " to find he did
not so much appear to be reading, as speaking a
part learned by rote. Walter told me that
Swinburne seldom read anything from Dickens
without having previously made a careful study of
the chapter or chapters before reading them aloud.
Here again was an instance of imitation being the
sincerest form of flattery. Dickens must have
done the same when reading his own works to
crowded audiences.

As in most houses, our Christmas dinner was a
family affair a jolly and homely little gathering.
Our only guest, outside the circle of relatives, was
Mr. Mackenzie Bell, for whom my husband enter-
tained a great regard. For myself, who had only
been married a month, it seemed as if some
magician's wand had touched me when I found
myself presiding at this Dickensian dinner-table.
When the table was arranged, looking so pretty
with the Yule log in the middle, and little bundles
of crackers scattered at intervals over the cloth,

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CHRISTMAS AT THE PINES

Swinburne slipped quietly down from his library,
and having got the maid to show him where each
member of the party was to sit, he placed an
addressed envelope by the side of each cover.
These contained the Christmas cards (duly
inscribed) which he had been at such pains to select.
In the performance of this ritual none of us was
ever forgotten by the poet.

A chorus of amusing sallies greeted the entrance
of the turkey, " done and dished," as we recalled
the golden glories of the " noble bird ' now
guillotined and deprived of most of its splendours.

More fun came at the end when, the repast
being over, there was a general pulling of
Christmas crackers. Swinburne now appeared to
be thoroughly in his element. The fine cere-
mbniousness with which he bowed across the table
to his old friends, Miss Watts and Mrs. Mason,
as he requested the honour of a "tug-of-war,"
was a "sight for sore eyes," and great was the
amusement we all derived from hearing the Bard
read the doggerel bits from the mottoes. He
kept the table in a roar with his witticisms, and
eagerly searched his end of the cracker in the hope
that it might contain a specimen of cracker poetry.
Eventually everybody's mottoes were handed to
him to read. This was a divine moment for such

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

an elocutionist. He carefully unrolled each little
slip of paper, and in as stirring tones as he could
command and the more stupid the lines the more
pathos he contrived to put into his voice-
he would " pray silence " for the recital of some
absurd morsel. At the conclusion he would cast
up the whites of his eyes to the ceiling, and after
heaving a tremendous sigh, exclaim, "A sublime
line ! a truly poetic line ! What would I not
give to have written it! ' When it came to the
turn of Walter's young niece, Miss Aimee Watts
a charming girl hailing from Australia or
myself, Swinburne's eyes sparkled witR mischief.
He solicited us both in turn to be his cracker
partners, and the motto in each case of course
contained some rubbish about love. He
endeavoured to make the ridiculous verses more
ridiculous still, and loud were the laughs when he
read with emphasis and affected emotion such
amorous stuff as :

You are so fair that Cupid's dart

Can ne'er be pulled from my fond heart.

The motto that resulted from his " pull " with
me was more ambitious. Swinburne rendered the
lines as fervently as though they had come straight
from Sappho herself. Here they are :

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CPIRISTMAS AT THE PINES

O valorous knight, whose eyes are as blue

As the sky which is calm above tempests that grieve,

My heart is my Christmas present to you,

So take it and wear it but not on your sleeve.

. .

Ah! " he said with the most profound gravity,
" that person, whoever he is, deserves to be Poet
Laureate."

When the guests had departed, the poet had
quite thrown over the part of Master of the Revels.
He was now the serious Dickensian and read the
selected passages from "A Christmas Carol." The
peacefulness of the closing hours of the day was
in strange contrast to the mirth of the dinner, and
I cannot say that I was sorry when the evening
came to an end and Swinburne took leave of us
with a courteous bow and a cheery "Good-night."

169

CHAPTER XV

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

NEXT to love of his friends came Swinburne's
love of the sea. And next to his love of the sea
ranked his love of Babies. Admirers of the poet
may express some surprise that I do not
include his love of books. I purposely avoided
that inclusion. Books were his very life. They
were as essential to his existence as the food
he ate. And just as most people would sicken
and die without their daily bread, so would
Swinburne have collapsed without his daily
books.

Swinburne's love of the sea was the natural
emotion of one whose childhood's home was within
hearing of its waves. Moreover, in Admiral
Swinburne he honoured as sire one who had a
distinguished career as a sailor-man. So that both
heredity and environment united to invite and

170

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

continued to strengthen his splendid affection for
the sea, expressed in immortal words.

The Bard's love of babies presents a problem
which I have always found at once exciting and
baffling. It may be that he felt in looking at
babies that charm of a profound mystery suggested
by the beauty of someone newly arrived on earth.
However that may be, the admiration approaching
idolatry for the speechless infant which Swinburne
professed was not a pose : it was real.

It must be confessed, however, that the poet
knew nothing of that type of child whose
conduct is summed up in the elastic description
" naughty." Had he ever had the dubious
privilege of nursing a fractious infant, he might
have been tempted to compose a lyric after the
manner of Thomas Hood, who voices the senti-
ments of a parent towards a kicking sleepless brat
of the male species in this way :

Lullaby, oh, lullaby !
What the devil makes you cry?

Throughout Swinburne's numerous poems
about babies and children one hears nothing of a
peevish infant, a spoilt child, a sulky boy or a
greedy boy, although he got no end of fun out
of, and expressed the greatest admiration for that

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

delightful fictitious youth "the fat boy in Pick-
wick." As to the little girl,

Who wore a little curl

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good

She was very, very good,

But when she was bad she was horrid,

perhaps in real life at some unlucky moment he
had encountered that young person, for he declares
the angelic temper and sublime qualities of
" Little Nell " as too good to be true, and incon-
tinently dubs her " a monster as inhuman as a
baby with two heads." But all his geese were
swans, and he ecstatically speaks of babes, from
birth upwards, as : " adorable, sweet, living,
marvellous." In terms of extravagant adulation
he praises with bated breath their " dimpling
smiles," their " pink toes," their " rosebud
hands," their "heavenly eyes," their "flower-
soft fists," and so on ad nauseam, a cynic would
say. Of a baby " Three weeks old," he sings :

Three weeks since there was no such rose in being ;

Now may eyes made dim with deep delight
See how fair it is, laugh with love, and seeing

Praise the chance that bids us bless the sight.

Three weeks old, and a very rose of roses,
Bright and sweet as love is sweet and bright,

Heaven and earth, till a man's life wanes and closes,
Show not life or love a lovelier sight.
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THE SEA AND THE BABIES

Three weeks past have renewed the rose-bright creature

Day by day with life, and night by night.
Love, though fain of its every faultless feature,
Lends not words to match the silent sight.

It is very lovely, and I for one simply adore all his
poems in praise of babies. But if the poet had
seen a baby screaming itself purple in the face, he
wisely kept it dark. I very much doubt if he ever
had witnessed such a spectacle, for people took
care that he only saw their babies when on their
best behaviour.

I myself know a lady (Frances Forbes-Robert-
son) who is proud of the fact that Swinburne
nursed her in his arms the day she was christened.
When she told Walter and myself of this interest-
ing occurrence I was very curious to know how
she had behaved on this momentous occasion. She
was not able to enlighten me from first-hand
evidence of course, but I remember how earnest
she appeared to be in hoping that, " for the poet's
sake," she had refrained from making an
exhibition of herself.

The little infant of the slums was simply an
unknown quantity to the Bard, and the bare
idea of a dirty baby was not to be entertained
for a moment. He always thought one of the
funniest things in the electioneering episode in

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

" Pickwick ' was the idea of the " twenty
washed men waiting at the street door to be shaken
hands with " a most delightful touch. He had
heard of and possibly seen many a specimen of the
great unwashed, but an unwashed baby never !
Truth to tell, his experiences of child-life were
confined to the region of " purple and fine linen,"
and he never went near Famine street for his
types. To look even of a picture of a miserably-
clad little child would, I think, have made him
perfectly wretched, though he translated Hugo's
poem about Les Enfants Pauvres whom God had
sent with wings and retrouve avec des haillons I
He loved to think of all babies as well fed and
continuously happy and of course smiling. He
loved to look at the portraits of fat chubby babies,
and I remember how he gloated over an exquisite
volume filled with portraits of children and babies
entitled Les portraits de Venfant by Moreau
Vanthier. I think his cousin, Mrs. Leith,
brought it for him one day, and after she went,
he called me in to look at it. How he raved over
all the babies wonderful little Dukes and Prin-
cesses of a bygone age, some dressed in costly lace
robes, whilst others, half clothed, revealed arms
and legs as fat as butter! His beau-ideal of a
baby was that of Leopold de Medicis as an infant

174

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

the original of which by Tiberio Titi hangs in the
Pitti Palace, Florence. Swinburne's small repro-
duction stood upon his mantelpiece, and he must
have gazed at it continually. He pointed out this
luscious little specimen to me the day the book
arrived, and not even in his extensive vocabulary
could he find adjectives sufficiently rich to express
his admiration for this little Italian baby. As he
bade me look at it, reclining in royal state on a
very gorgeous cushion, the little limbs only
partially covered by the most exquisite coverlet of
embroidered gold and precious stones, his finger
travelled lovingly over the fat baby arms and chest.
' Oh, the little duck ! Did you ever see such
darling dimples? Just look at those sweet little
arms! Isn't he perfect?" exclaimed this child-
worshipper, with a mouth almost watering as he
got to the end of his superlatives ; and thinking of
nothing more expressive to say, he had to resort
to " lip-smacking " as a pis aller. I verily believe
if Swinburne could have seen that baby in the flesh,
he would have been tempted to eat him from sheer
admiration of his perfections.

Of course his friends were aware of his infatu-
ation, and helped to foster the baby craze. Fond
parents literally pelted the poet with photographs
of their respective offspring. Not only did his

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

relations send him the latest photo of " the
latest," but the relations' relations sent them as
well. Swinburne's collection of baby portraits was
distinctly large, ranging as it did over a wide field.
But he loved the lot. Catholic in taste, he wel-
comed the arrival of a photo of a baby in long
clothes with almost as much ardour as the parents
themselves. But he never wrote of his later baby-
loves at much length. His " first fine careless
rapture " had been expended years before in the
affection he lavished upon Walter's little nephew,
Bertie Mason. Some of the sweetest lyrics in the
world are written in his honour. The following
is his portrait :

Here is a rough

Rude sketch of my friend,
Faint coloured enough

And unworthily penned.

Fearlessly fair

And triumphant he stands,
And holds unaware

Friends' hearts in his hands;

Stalwart and straight

As an oak that should bring
Forth gallant and great

Fresh roses in spring . . .
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THE SEA AND THE BABIES

Each action, each motion,
Each feature, each limb,

Demands a devotion
In honour of him :

Head that the hand

Of a god might have blest,

Laid lustrous and bland
On the curve of its crest :

Mouth sweeter than cherries,

Keen eyes as of Mars,
Browner than berries

And brighter than stars.

Nor colour nor wordy
Weak song can declare

The stature how sturdy,
How stalwart his air.

As a king in his bright
Presence chamber may be,

So seems he in height

Twice higher than your knee. . . .

And well though I know it,

As fain would I write,
Child, never a poet

Could praise you aright.

I bless you? the blessing

Were less than a jest
Too poor for expressing ;

I come to be blest,

M 177

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

With humble and dutiful

Heart, from above :
Bless me, O my beautiful

Innocent love !

This little hero fully reciprocated his poet
friend's tender passion. But the sad fact remains
that a few of his infantile acquaintances with whom
he sought to ingratiate himself did not take to
him. His magnetism did not work quickly with
children, and failed with those of whom he saw
but little. His hard and futile efforts with some
children were enough to make the angels weep.
I know on the best authority that his propitiatory
antics sometimes met with a very cool reception,
the mites being either too bored or too frightened
to meet him halfway. With him, it was indeed
a case of un qui aime Vautre qui se laisse aimer.

Most of the Bard's pictures of infants were gifts ;
but a few of them he had purchased. On the
table at which I am writing stands a specimen of
the latter. It is a miniature figure modelled in
some composite material. It represents a new-
born babe emerging from an egg-shell. The child
is of the tint of terra-cotta and has a very ugly
face. Presumably Swinburne saw some beauty in
the image or was fascinated by the modelling of
its limbs or by its mobility, for the figure

178

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

is mounted on a wire and wobbles when touched.
He was very proud of his purchase and set great
store by it. Where he picked it up I do not know ;
he had acquired the artistic treasure before I made
his acquaintance. More than once he called my
attention to the tiny work of art and expatiated,
sometimes humorously, sometimes seriously on its
" points."

Perhaps the most convincing proof that I can
adduce of the genuineness of Swinburne's child-
worship is this : a flippant comment on a baby
indulged in even by a writer so dear to him as Sir
Walter Scott caused the Bard to " see red."

In the " Journal of Sir Walter Scott " there
occurs under April 10, 1828, this passage :

The baby is that species of dough which is called a fine
baby. I care not for children till they care a little for me.

In his essay on the " Journal," Swinburne
contrasts Scott's " tenderness for a dog with such
irreverence towards an infant " and denounces it
' as a disgraceful reflection on one of his grand-
children." He dismisses the offence against His
Majesty the Baby with the remark : "After all,
Scott was neither a Homer nor a Victor Hugo."
When one reflects that no eulogy uttered by
Swinburne about Scott appeared to him excessive,

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

one cannot doubt that he .was every inch a
" babyolator " when he thus attacked the author
of " Ivanhoe."

Looking back now, I cannot understand why we
never secured a house or cottage of our own by
the sea at least for the summer months. The
two friends had never done so during all the long
period of their joint tenancy of The Pines, and it
never occurred to me to acquire a pied-a-terre in
any one selected spot. Had I done so, it might
have saved weary tramps in different localities in
search of a furnished house, or part of a house
that the Poet might like. He so adored the sea
that it is natural to wonder why he never acquired
a sea-side abode at one of his favourite places,
especially the Isle of Wight the beautiful Vectis
of his dreams or on the coast of his beloved
Northumberland. But Swinburne was not like
other men, and even if he had inherited a property
of his own he would not have known what to do
with it. Walter was everlastingly on the look out
for a suitable place where he could take the Bard
for his summer holiday, and after my marriage I
joined in the hunt and in explorations of
inspection. No pilgrims in search of the Golden
Fleece encountered more drawbacks than fell to
our share in endeavouring to obtain the almost

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THE SEA AND THE BABIES

unobtainable. Walter from long experience knew
to a nicety .what Swinburne would like, and he had
given me such minute directions on the subject
that I was considered qualified for the post of
"investigator-in-chief." It was so difficult to get
the right thing.

The conditions demanded for the Poet's com-
fort and well-being were manifold. Hardly
anything seemed to be just right. I don't know
whether it was the house or the place or the
bathing that came first in importance, but Swin-
burne's contentment with all three was absolutely
essential. The place had to be secluded and quiet,
what the Bard called an " esplanady ' place
being anathema to us all. The house had to be
within easy distance of the sea, and must contain
no " lodgers " except the party from The Pines.
Above all the Bard insisted on a sandy beach
where deep-water bathing was possible at all
tides ! Walter was often far too busy to look
after the preliminaries himself, so I was told
off to orienter (as he expressed it), with
injunctions to report progress as soon as possible.
When I thought I had hit upon an ideal spot
complying with all the required conditions as nearly
as possible, I would write off excitedly for him
to come and inspect my find. He would arrive

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

in a hopeful mood, fully prepared to praise my
discovery and with no intention of finding flaws.
But gradually his trained eye would discover some
drawback that I had not thought of, and the weary
search would be renewed. Perhaps the house itself
was not just right for Swinburne. Perhaps the
walks around the neighbourhood were too danger-
ous for one who could not be relied upon to hear
and get out of the way of an occasional motor car
passing along the road ; or if other things were
right, the bathing might be wrong, for it was of
the utmost importance that Swinburne's bathing
place would permit of his plunging into the water
in puris natwalibus. He, of course, was quite
ignorant of the elaborate plans made for his enter-
tainment, and to do him justice I am sure if he
had known of all the efforts made on his behalf,
he would have been more than sorry to be the
cause of so 1 much labour. He was not fussy, and was
so simple in his tastes and requirements that an
inexperienced person would have thought it quite
an easy matter to select a place that he would like.
I remember soon after my marriage going on a
visit of inspection in the hope of finding the exact
thing, and starting off joyously confident of
success. We selected a small seaside village in
Kent where, during a stay at Margate, I had

182

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

espied a little house in an unfrequented by-way,
which I considered would be most suitable. The
country round about was very charming, and I
hastened to inform Walter of the desirability of
taking it as being eminently suitable for
Swinburne's requirements. He came down to see
what I had found and I shall never forget the way
in which he entered into minute particulars about
everything. Joy ! the house was all right. He
carefully measured the distance from the house to
the shore and pronounced that nearly all right, but
alas for my rising hopes, when he came to inspect
the beach and saw the sea retiring in the distance,
he regretfully announced that the tides would be
all wrong for Swinburne's bathing. On this part
of the coast the sea would never come up high
enough to enable the poet to plunge conveniently
into deep water. And the idea of his walking
through the sea till he reached a swimming depth
was not to be considered for a moment. Hence
my toil and hope on this occasion were wasted
from this cause alone.

Another thing which weighed very considerably
was the romantic interest of any part of the coast-
line overlooking a part of the sea covering sub-
merged territory. Hence the fascination that
Dunwich held for them both. In fact, any part

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

of a coast formed after the sea had swallowed a

piece of Old England had on the Bard the effect
of a potent and awe-inspiring spell. For this
reason the counties of Norfolk and Suffolk were
preferred to almost any others. The shelving
cliffs of Suffolk inspired Swinburne's magnificent
poem " By the North Sea," and it was, at Cromer,
years before, that part of "A Midsummer
Holiday " was written. Curiously enough it was
at this latter place that my first visit to the sea
accompanied by the poet took place.

For various reasons, chief among them the
tremendous climb that a bathe would entail in
oider to reach the sea owing to the great height
of the cliffs at Overstrand, the Mill House, where
the two friends had often stayed before, was
no longer eligible, though Walter and I paid a
visit there together to see if we could somehow
make it serve. It grieved us to have to seek other
lodgings, for the poet and Walter had been
honoured guests, and Mr. Jermy, the miller, and
his daughter now gave me hearty welcome also.
They tried hard to persuade us, and with a note
of regret in his voice, the old miller, now dead,
enquired, " What is Mr. Swinburne busy with
now? I was looking forward to hearing him read
again." I could hardly believe my ears, for it

184

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

sounded so odd coming from such a quarter. But
it was nevertheless genuine, and Walter replied
that the poet was very busy indeed preparing his
poems for the press. "More proofs then? '
hazarded the miller. " Ah, yes, to be sure, more
proofs," said Walter with genial alacrity.

It seems that on the poet's previous visits he
had been in the habit of reading proofs aloud to
his host, and many a summer evening would these
two spend together in the garden of the Mill
House. Long yarns .would the worthy miller spin
about Swinburne, telling how in the morning, or
after lunch, the inevitable package having arrived
for the poet, he would propose reading out some
of the poems in the evening, " If Mr. Jermy would
be kind enough to listen ! ' ' (how characteristic
and delightful of the Bard!) " How I looked
forward all day long to the evening, when, after
my work in the fields or at the mill was over, I
should sit down beside him and listen to him. I
think he liked reading to me," proudly remarked
the old man with a very wise shake of the head.
Such a confession inwardly entertained me, for it
fully confirmed my opinion that Swinburne so
appreciated an audience that he positively felt lost
without one. We all shook hands at parting, and
as I felt the rough horny palm of this son of the

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

soil between my fingers, I came away with the
conviction that Swinburne could not have had a
better listener. As we stood on the roadside
whilst father and daughter waved their farewells
from the old white gate, the miller's cheery voice
rang out : * ' Give my best regards and kind
remembrances to Mr. Swinburne." These I duly
conveyed to the poet when he arrived at Cromer
some few days later, and all sorts of messages and
good wishes were returned that filled the heart of
his old friend, the miller, with joy.

Walter and I made tracks in a westerly direction
and engaged rooms on the Runton Road some
distance from the little town of Cromer where
there was a fine stretch of sandy beach, and where
the Bard could bathe in utter seclusion. Then he
went home to fetch Swinburne and I stayed behind
to await their arrival. How well I remember
meeting them at the Railway Station a few days
afterwards. Swinburne was very gay, and all
excitement at again smelling the sea. As we
drove to the house, I could not help noticing how
really smart he looked. There was something
different about him that I had never noticed before,
but in the bustle of finding the luggage and getting
clear of the station, I could not define just what
it was. It was not the overcoat he carried over

186

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

his arm, exceptional though this was. Then, as
he sat opposite to me in the cab, it suddenly
dawned upon me that his restless hands were
encased in quite a smart pair of tan gloves how
he must have hated them ! I was deeply interested
in this astounding innovation, and as soon as
Walter and I found ourselves alone after arriving
at the lodgings, I asked the reason for such an
unheard-of proceeding. His face assumed a wistful
and tender little smile as he unfolded the story of
the gloves. It seems that for this special occasion
the poet had surreptitiously unearthed a pair of
gloves, and put them in his pocket before leaving
home. Much to Walter's astonishment, during
the journey he produced them, asking to be
reminded to put them on a little time before their
arrival at their destination, remarking, " I should
not like Clara to meet me at the station without
any gloves on."

So, he had put on these uncomfortable gloves
solely for me ! How this sweet little admission
touched me ! When Swinburne afterwards joined
us at dinner I could only look at him with a
renewed feeling of tender regard for such a
graceful and na'ive act of courtesy.

He was so unmindful of any sort of weather
conditions that it was difficult for him to adapt

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c

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

himself to them. In fact he never could do so.
He did not readily understand that it might be
unwise to go swimming except under favourable
conditions with regard to the elements. He was
for taking a plunge the day after his arrival, no
matter what the weather would be like, and for .
the purpose of doing so he and Walter went down
to explore the beach.

The very sight of the sea seemed to fire this
stormy petrel to instant action, and a yearning to
strip and plunge headlong into the waves was not
to be resisted. A boat had been engaged before
his arrival, and about noon he gave orders to the
boatman to row him some distance out to sea in
order that he could dive from the stern into very
deep water. Walter told me what a splendid dive
he always gave, but although on this occasion he
appeared to enjoy the exercise quite as much as
usual, he got into the boat in a very cold and
exhausted condition. The sea that he loved so
well did not appear to have the same beneficial
effect as of yore, and instead of invigorating, it
seemed to weaken him. Swinburne put this
down to the roughness of the sea, but he did admit
that the water was rather cold. Not that this first
attempt deterred him in the least, although it
rendered his companion nervous and apprehensive.

188

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

The next day found him as eager as ever to test
his swimming prowess, with alas, no greater
success than before. This second trial did not
improve matters. He again emerged from the
water white and exhausted, and almost blue with
the cold. This condition of affairs became alarm-
ing. Swinburne confessed to feeling extremely
tired, and it distressed Walter to see him looking
so unlike himself. Afterwards he was asked to
forgo his swimming altogether at least for the
time being. As it was obviously doing him harm
Swinburne reluctantly consented, but not without
many pangs and heartaches. It was an intense
disappointment to them both. The Bard would
roam about the beach, looking seaward with
longing eyes. What were his thoughts, I often
wondered. To have to deny himself the luxury
of swimming in his beloved sea was very cruel.
But he bore it bravely, and so enjoyed walking by
the shore that the temptation to board the boat
was soon cast aside. He would take long walks
inland, too, sometimes alone, and often accom-
panied by Walter and me.

One day we made a sort of bet as to where we
would find the greatest number of landslips in
a southerly or northerly direction. Swinburne de-
clared that he had noticed several huge gaps in the

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

cliffs going north, and Walter thought the inroads
of the sea had played more havoc with the land
southwards. So we first of all went south to observe
the effects of a recent landslip that had occurred
the year before. Swinburne had no hesitation in
agreeing with Walter when he saw a great yawning
mountain of earth reaching far away into the sea,
and he exclaimed that he had seldom seen a more
wonderful and awe-inspiring sight. Both he and
I ventured so near to the edge that Walter was
in a constant fear that the earth would give way
under us and we had repeated peremptory orders
to " keep away from the edge for God's sake."

Swinburne admitted that his friend knew far
more about the effects of landslips than he or than
most people, and all the way home and during
dinner interesting talk took place about receding
England and submerged towns. I sat at the head
of the table listening to it all, and carving the roast
duckling which more often than not seemed to
be the meat set before me. We all loved it, and
if it was a case of toujours canardeau it was because
we preferred it to any other.

One day I remember this delectable bird did not
appear to be as young as it ought to have been, and
I experienced some difficulty in carving it. Whilst
witnessing my efforts, Walter began telling

190

THE SEA AND THE BABIES

Swinburne a very amusing story about one of
Rossetti's dinner-parties. The Bard loved to hear
any sort of anecdote about the poet-painter, and
I revelled in the stories they would unfold around
"Topsy " (William Morris) and " Gabriel." I
was commanded to listen while I wrestled with
the anatomy of my recalcitrant bird.

Rossetti, I was told, always persisted in doing
the carving himself, though he was by no means
a master-hand at the game. His method of
carving was as follows : Savagely preparing
himself for an onslaught, he would spear the joint
or fowl with the carving fork, and go for it with
the knife somewhat in the manner of a barbarian
trying hurriedly to kill a foe. One night at Cheyne
Walk there was a grander dinner party than
usual, and a goodly number were sitting at the
feast. For the occasion Rossetti had ordered two
ducks to be placed on the dish at the same time.
He began attacking a bird in his accustomed
manner, jerking both ducks from side to side in
the dish and incidentally splashing everybody
within range with gravy. One of the birds being
of grandmotherly toughness, his endeavours to
dissect its limbs resulted in his depositing the
whole of the other bird on the knees of George
Augustus Sala, who was sitting sedately by the

191

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

side of his host in full and blameless evening-dress.
Gabriel paused in his work, and discovering where
he had landed the other duck, he stared at his
astonished guest, and quite unabashed by the
mishap calmly drawled " I say, Sala, just hand
me back that duck."

Swinburne's fondness for making up nonsense
rhymes never wholly left him, and his wonderful
memory enabled him to recall some of the trifles
that either he or Rossetti had scribbled in
" honour " of their mutual friends. I know that
Rossetti has been credited with the amusing
limerick written around Dr. Franz Hueffer, the
accomplished son-in-law of Ford Madox Brown,
but I fancy the Bard had some hand in its compila-
tion he was then seeing much of Rossetti, and
the pair were in the habit of concocting this form
of jingle together. Walter's story of Rossetti and
the duck set the ball rolling about old times, and
this limerick was spouted anew for my benefit.
Both Swinburne and Rossetti were very friendly
with Dr. Hueffer, who besides being a great
scholar and man of scientific learning, was an
accomplished musician to whom England is
indebted for his championship of the music of
Wagner. As an exponent of Schopenhauer,
however, he was dogmatic and emphatic, and this

192

193

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

cult not being to the taste of his jovial friends,
they " served him up " the following doggerel,
which, it may be added, very much amused
Hueffer himself :

There's a metaphysician called Hueffer
A hypochondriacal buffer,

To proclaim Schopenhauer,

From the top of a tower,
Is the ultimate mission of Hueffer.

I have given it as I remember hearing it : there
exists another version.

As was their wont, my husband and Swinburne
had brought bundles of MSS., reams of foolscap
and books galore to beguile the time during their
sojourn by the sea. Swinburne had brought the
proofs of certain of his poems for the " Collected
Edition," and the dedicatory epistle in prose which
he had written for it. He suggested reading it to
me another instance of his innate courtesy, for he
knew how much it would please me. This long
essay, filling twenty-nine pages of Vol. I of hij
collected poems, stands out as a piece of masterly
prose and reveals Swinburne at his best in scholar-
ship. He introduced the opening sentence wil
a reminder : " This is for Walter, you know,"
and proceeded to read, ever on the look-out foi
some mistake in the text. If so much as a comi

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

was omitted or wrongfully introduced, down would
go his pencil on the offending line, and nis vituper-
ative comments were somewhat of a relief from
the strain of following his magnificent prose. As
he read on, I was awed by the burning intensity of
his language. Two sentences in particular made
me very uncomfortable as Swinburne stressed
each insulting or bitter word, making me feel the
sting of the old saying : " If the cap fits, wear it."
His eyes seeoned to pierce me through and through
as I listened :

The half-brained creature to whom books are other
than living things may see with the eyes of a bat and draw
with the fingers of a mole his dullard's distinction between
books and life : those who live the fuller life of a higher
animal than he know that books are to poets as much part
of that life as pictures are to painters or as music is to
musicians, dead matter though they may be to the
spiritually still-born children of dirt and dullness who find
it possible and natural to live while dead in heart and brain.

Marlowe and Shakespeare, ^Eschylus and Sappho, do
not for us live only on the dusty shelves of libraries.

The concluding sentence, which gave me visions
of the unexplored dusty top shelves in the library
at home, made me so unspeakably wretched that
at the conclusion of the reading I went almost
weeping to Walter to receive his assurance that
Swinburne did not mean me. Well, however.

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THE SEA AND THE BABIES

was I rewarded for my suffering. When the
volumes appeared the Bard gave me the whole set
for a birthday present, and inscribed them to me,
enriching the fly-leaf with the following lines :

The waves are a joy to the seamew, the meads to the herd,
And a joy to the heart is a goal that it may not reach.

The book on the tapis at this time, I well
remember, was "The Woman in White.'' The
pitch of enthusiasm to which Swinburne worked
himself whilst reading it to Walter was unforget-
table. He became short of breath at the thrilling
situations. The characters gripped his imagination
to such an extent that for the time being he lived
inside the parts created by the novelist. I had
not been present at the beginning of the narrative,
so I only heard it fragmentarily. The story was
not being read for the first or even the second
time. Its present innings had started at Putney,
and Swinburne had taken care not to leave
it behind. Just before sitting down to dinner one
evening, the Bard having concluded a wonder-
fully exciting chapter held up his glass of beer,
and just as he might have been toasting an absent
friend exclaimed, alluding to Fosco who drinks the
health of Miss Halcombe, " And well might he
drink her health! So do I."

197

CHAPTER XVI

TABLE TALK

FORTUNATELY for his guests, before he came to live
with Walter at The Pines, Swinburne rarely made
any attempt at hospitality beneath his own
bachelor roof in Great James Street. He was in
the habit of lunching or dining with Walter, when
they were neighbours in Great James Street,
either at the Cock Tavern in Fleet Street or at
the London Restaurant at the corner of Chancery
Lane.

The very idea of the Bard grappling with the in-
tricacies of a cuisine, especially under the auspices
of a " laundress " (that is, I fancy, the correct
name for the female who " does," in more ways
than one, for her lodgers) makes me laugh or
weep. With the assistance of the egregious
" Mrs. Crupp," David Copperfield did have the
forethought to order a well-chosen menu from the

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TABLE TALK

pastrycook's on the occasion of his little dinner at
his chambers in Buckingham Street.

Would that Swinburne had done likewise when
he invited Justin Huntly MacCarthy to lunch with
him. A day or two before this festivity the Bard
had met this extremely nice young man at
a private view of the Blake Exhibition. Wish-
ing to show him hospitality, Swinburne with
great cordiality exclaimed, " Come to lunch,"
and forthwith appointed a day. Delighted and
honoured by the invitation, the guest duly
presented himself and was ushered into the sitting-
room where Swinburne was waiting for him. On
a table were a few plates, a tin of biscuits, a pot
of jam, a bottle of hock and nothing else. The
guest, thinking that the poet's " laundress "
would shortly appear bearing at least a dish of cold
meat to augment the repast, listened enraptured
to his host's conversation and politely awaited
his invitation to take his seat at the board. No
hospitable female appeared, however, and after a
short time, Swinburne, waving his hand towards
the jam and the hock, airily said, " Shall we
have luncheon now? ' and proceeded to place
himself before the tin of biscuits and hand the
pot of jam to his guest, inviting him to " help
himself." He then placed the biscuits within

199

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

his guest's reach and poured out two glasses of
hock.

This weird luncheon proceeded until they had
both satisfied themselves with the two solitary
comestibles, and emptied the bottle of hock.

Mrs. Disney Leith, in her recollections of her
famous cousin, prints a letter from Swinburne to
his mother. This letter is written from The Pines
and contains this passage : " What stuff people
talk about youth being the happiest time of life !
Thank God . . . I am very much more than twice
as happy now as I was when half my present age."

An assured and undisturbed happiness in his
environment, his pursuits, his intercourse, was
the dominant note of his life at Putney Hill. And
there was no period of the day when that conscious
joy in existence was more manifest than during
meal times. For if the poet was a master of
monologue, he was by no means incapable of the
delightful small talk, the conversational give-and-
take, the apt allusions, the appropriate quip. In
this unstudied converse he " was quick at the
up-take." Meal time was never a dull interlude
in the day's duties and distractions.

His manners at the table were of the old courtly
school and were charming. He would never
think of helping himself until he was quite sure

200

TABLE TALK

that you had everything you wanted. The salt or
the mustard he would pass to you with a little
smiling bow and an air of genuine courtliness.
He was punctilious over the small observances of
the table. For instance, it would never occur to
him, at the end of the repast, to throw his napkin
down in an untidy heap for a servant to collect
and adjust. It was the hero, so to speak,. of quite
a little ceremony. The rolling-up of it seemed
to afford him a real pleasure. He would fold the
ends together and smooth out the creases with
religious solicitude before slipping it back into its
ring. And should the folding and rolling fail to
come up to his idea of artistic perfection, he would
undo the work of his hands and perform the
ceremony all over again. When he was really
sure that all the requirements of the case had been
met, he would look up at us with a happy, boyish
smile and a satisfied ejaculation of "Ah! " as if
he had accomplished some difficult feat.

Comment having been made on the remarkable
thoroughness with which he conducted this perfor-
mance, he explained that when he was a little boy
in the nursery his mother had taught him to be
particular in this matter, and that he still took a
pride in following her instructions.

Talking of napkin-rings reminds me of a little

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

incident. My husband on one occasion gave the
poet a celluloid ring, and he explained to me while
purchasing it, "I will give this to Algernon for a
lark he will think it is ivory." It cost, I think,
a shilling or eighteen pence, and the inexperienced
eye would suppose it was real ivory. I doubt if
Swinburne had ever heard of celluloid. A little
oblong picture of French design was let into the
surface of the ring. This decoration had the effect
of an exquisite miniature by some artist of the
Watteau school, giving an air of expensiveness
to what was merely pretty.

When my husband gave his little present to
Swinburne, the latter waxed quite eloquent,
" Beautiful! " " Charming! " were among his
fervent exclamations of delight and appreciation.
When he was told what the napkin-ring had cost,
he found it difficult to believe it. He shrugged
his shoulders and ejaculated repeatedly " Tiens !
Tiens ! How can such things be ? '

When in the mood, he would notice and
comment on any trifle on the table, and anything
new or pretty immediately arrested his attention.
For example he never tired of commenting on a
little Queen Anne mustard-pot I had bought.
When he had recourse to it, he would gaze on it
with an expression of the utmost satisfaction. Its

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TABLE TALK

quaint shape and fluted pattern appealed to
his artistic sense. " I like this little thing, it is so
pretty," he would say as a sort of apology for
lingering over its qualities instead of taking his
mustard and getting on with his meal. There was
one table decoration which he could not stand.
He hated to see cut flowers used for ornamentation
or indeed for any other purpose. He had an idea
that it Hurt the poor things to cut them. He
described them as innocents who had undergone
execution, beautiful heads that had been guillo-
tined, severed from their fair fragile bodies and
consigned to the sawdusty basket of M. Sanson.
To him flowers presented a tragic spectacle
unless they were " all a-blowing and a-growing."
Apropos this peculiar and rather pathetic trait,
another incident comes back to me. One spring-
time I had been into the country and I came upon
a wood wherein blue-bells were spread like a
carpet. Had I been a poet, the scene would
doubtless have conjured up to my mind's eye many
exquisite ideas. But I could only think of one,
of unseen fairies dancing between the lovely bells,
their tread leaving every flower undisturbed. I
felt like a female Gulliver in a lovelier Lilliput.
From sheer jaie de vivre I took off my shoes,
meaning to join in the revels of the fairy host.

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Then something stopped me. I shrank from the
idea of trampling like a giant among such exquisite
and fragile things. I put on my shoes again. On
my return I told Swinburne of my experience,
describing the beauty of the scene, the suddenness
of the temptation, the equally sudden revulsion
of feeling, and I saw that the poet was really
moved by my idea.

"It was better not; you might have hurt
them," he said.

I do not wish it to be inferred that our table-talk
was solely concerned with " trifles light as air."
Some chance allusion to French affairs would,
perhaps, bring up the name of Napoleon III, the
Napoleon le Petit of Victor Hugo. This roused
the poet to alternate rage and rapture, for he
regarded the Emperor as one of the most odious
and contemptible of throned criminals, while he
worshipped Hugo as the greatest of the literary
immortals. To describe his outbursts on these
topics as picturesque, passionate, and perfervid is
to do them very much less than justice. The
atmosphere of the room became electrical, and
sparks seemed to crackle in all directions.

When Hugo was the theme, there was no con-

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TABLE TALK

versation : Swinburne declaimed and we listened.
I remember, however, a notable exception to this
rule. One day at table he was unusually quiet.
He was looking dull and despondent. I asked
my husband if Algernon would like to hear me
recite a poem I had learned at school. Upon
being assured that the poet would be delighted to
listen to me, I went over to him and knelt on the
floor by his side. I told him that I knew a little
poem by Victor Hugo. At the mere mention of
" The Master " his unhappy mood passed, like a
mist dispelled by the effulgence of the sun. His
face became radiant, his attitude that of eager
attention. The poem was addressed to a jeune
file. The composition was tame, and convenable
to the last degree. But in the eyes of his English
singing brother, Victor Hugo was sacrosanct. He
fairly beamed on me as I proceeded, and when I
had finished he thanked me in his polite way
and assured me that I had afforded him great
pleasure. His melancholy mood had entirely dis-
appeared, and he began to talk of the days when
he " was a kid at Eton."

There was naturally much literary talk at our
table. Walter was anxious that I should be
qualified to take part in it when the topics were
within my intellectual range. There came an

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

occasion when he suggested to me that I might
find Border Minstrelsy an interesting field of
study. It was a topic frequently trotted out
by the housemates at The Pines. I bought a
copy of " Border Ballads " and soon discovered
as much fascination in " Clerk Saunders " and
" The Wife of Usher's Well " as any literary
husband could hope for or desire.

There are two stanzas in " Clerk Saunders '
which Walter and the Bard delighted to recite
alternately. My husband would begin :

Is there ony room at your head, Saunders?

Is there ony room at your feet?
Is there ony room at your side, Saunders?

Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?

Well I can recall the pleasure Swinburne
derived in replying :

There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret,

There's nae room at my feet;
My bed it is full lowly now,

Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

It was weird, but beautiful in a way, and I felt as
greatly moved in listening as Swinburne obviously
was in reciting.

On the subject of Swinburne and the Border
Ballads I received from Lady Archibald Campbell
a very interesting letter which I Have great
pleasure in reproducing here :

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TABLE TALK

Coombe Hill Farm,

Kingston-on-Thames,

September 27th, 1919.
MY DEAR CLARA,

As you tell me you are writing a monograph of
Swinburne (and no one is more fitted to do it than yourself),
it has struck me some little incidents might interest you
which occurred in the early days of our friendship with him
and your husband, when they came together to see us. Of
course you know that our friendship with your wonderful
" Bird " * began when he was seeing much of Rossetti.
But of course we knew him before he had met either the
poet-painter or Swinburne.

It was a friend of the Duke and Duchess of Sutherland
who brought him to see us. She had often told me what a
wonderful man he was. She had made his acquaintance at
Rossetti 's. Afterwards when he and Swinburne became
friends I remember one of my first ventures to please him
was half-reciting half-singing some of the old Border
Ballads. He listened with rapt attention, and with that
fascinating politeness of his remarked, " Walter had not
told me you had the art of expressing the life of the
matchless Scottish Ballads ! I in a small way have attempted
that form of Ballad myself." I remember his pleasure over
" The Twa Corbies" how he bent his ear near to the piano
the better to hear every word ; and how " Lord Randal ' ;
delighted him especially about the poisonous eels when
his Mother asks him :

" Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?

Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"
" I gat eels boil'd in broo ; mother, make my bed soon,

For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie doon."
Lord Randal's reply saying he dined off " eels boiled in
broo " presumably poisoned by his " true love "
delighted him, and how he laughed !

* One of the three pet names for Walter,
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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Here is the couplet :

" O I fear ye are poison 'd, Lord Randal, my son !

O I fear ye are poison 'd, my handsome young man!"
" O yes ! I am poison 'd ; mother, make my bed soon,

For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie doon."

Their adorable simplicity in everyday life riveted me,
and many other countless memories they call up, which
make my heart too full to speak of otherwise than as radiant
beacons in my life, which threatened at one time to become
for me a slough of Philistine darkness, oppression and
repression certainly a curious combination !

Of course you are coming on Monday, so until then,
Au revoir.

Affectionately yours,

JANEY S. CAMPBELL.

On the wall at the left-hand side of the dining-
room door at The Pines there hung and still
hangs a water-colour painting by Miss Elizabeth
E. Siddal, who became the wife of Dante Gabriel
Rossetti. It is dated 1856. It represents an
episode described in the border ballad of " Sir
Patrick Spens." Sometimes when Swinburne
left the table after lunch, he would stop for
a moment to look at this little drawing. It linked
him with the past. It has often occurred to me
that his first ballads in the archaic style of the
Border Minstrelsy were written shortly after Miss
Siddal finished her picture. He was, as is well
known, an enthusiastic friend of Rossetti.

208

CHAPTER XVII

A WELCOME VISITOR

VISITORS at The Pines were usually impressed by
Swinburne's affability and courtesy, but in the
majority of cases they made very little impression
on him. One notable exception is worth a small
chapter.

The welcome visitor was Marion Crawford,
the novelist, whose writings Swinburne much
esteemed. The visit came about in this way.
Walter had written to Mr. Crawford telling him
how A. C. S. and he had been enthralled while
reading "A Cigarette Maker's Romance." The
letter ended like this, " When you are in England,
we should much like to meet you." Crawford was
evidently pleased, and when he next came to this
country, one of his first visits was to The Pines.

I can still recall vividly the occasion on which
he came to us. It was a splendid day in mid- June,

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

about four o'clock, and he was shown into the
dining-room which overlooks the garden, at that
time a glowing perspective of flower and foliage.
When I entered the room, our guest's back was
turned towards me. He was standing at the window
admiring the scene. He turned quickly as he heard
me enter. My first impression was that he looked
very much of a man. He stood well over six feet,
and his figure was in the nicest proportion to his
height. He was bronzed, and his hands were
beautifully shaped. What struck me most about
him was the very bright blue of his eyes. So
bright was the blue that I found it hard to believt
what I heard subsequently from one who knei
him well, that the blue never was so brilliant
as when he was on his beloved sea sailing his yacht
"Aeda." This was his ruling passion. He w*
more proud of having himself sailed the "Aeda '
from New York to Sorrento than he was of the
success of his most popular work. As I looked at
him, the thought flashed through my mind that
Marion Crawford looked more like the hero of a
novel than the writer of one.

Our greeting was cordial. I at once felt myself
at ease with him. Having exchanged polite
commonplaces, Mr. Crawford expressed his
admiration for the garden on which he had

210

just been gazing. " Why/' he said with his
bewitching smile, " you seem to be in the very
heart of the country here, and yet in the front of
your house you are in the midst of traffic and the
hoots of the motor horns." We talked together
for some time before my husband appeared. The
pleasure of both men on becoming acquainted was
too genuine for any disguise, but Walter had in
the drawing-room a business man whom he was
bound to rejoin, so it fell to my lot to pilot the
visitor to Swinburne's sanctum.

The poet had been told of Marion Crawford's
arrival, and never was introduction more easily
effected. I cannot recall how the introduction
was phrased, and I am inclined to think that there
was no formality, but that the men just met and
shook hands after the manner of old friends who
had not seen each other for a long time. Of course
they had many tastes in common. Both loved
Italy. Both loved the sea, and each of them had
a sincere admiration for the literary output of the
other. It was a delightful conversation, especially
as Swinburne had not the slightest difficulty in
hearing what Crawford said. A pleasant change,
this, from the boredom he so often experienced
when a visitor's voice failed to " carry." On this
occasion, both visitor and host seemed to generate

211

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

an atmosphere of harmony and repose. So
" enthused " did Swinburne become, that while
discussing Italy, he dropped into the language oi
that delightful land. But as his acquaintance witl
the language was that of a reader and not a speaker,
he soon dropped out of it again, notwithstanding
Crawford's tactful compliment on his fluency. Th<
deviation into Italian happened when the two mei
were discussing the " Orlando Furioso " of Ariostc
which Swinburne had taken down from his shelves.
I confess that a good deal of this part of the talk
was a little beyond me ; but I shall always recal
with gratitude the gallant efforts of our visitor t(
keep me participating easily in it. When con-
versation veered round to the sea Mr. Crawford's
kind wish for me to join in it was less difficult
comply with, for I, also, loved the sea.

Crawford at last expressed an eager desire
hear Swinburne read one of his own works. And,
nothing loth, the Bard read aloud the completec
part of " The Duke of Gandia." The novelis
appeared greatly impressed. Our visitor stayec
with us the whole afternoon, for it was close 01
dinner-time when he rose to leave. When
visit was at an end, and the two men bade good-
bye to each other with many hopes expressed for
another meeting, I left the poet's library with

212

A WELCOME VISITOR

Mr. Crawford. As the door of the sanctum closed,
he said to me, ' ' I shall never forget this day . ' ' He
turned and looked at the shut door and said, " It
has been wonderful ! wonderful ! ' In silence he
came down; and as he said " Good-bye," neither
of us imagined the good-bye was said for the last
time. By a coincidence these two great men of
letters died within twenty-four hours of each other,
Crawford on the 9th of April, 1909, Swinburne
on the 10th. I have two letters which bring back
very vividly that day in June. The first is from
Swinburne to Marion Crawford. The two men,
so greatly attracted one to the other, naturally
engaged in correspondence. The receipt of a
letter from the novelist was always regarded by the
poet as a specially interesting event, and it made
him happy for the whole day. Here is the letter
of A. C. S. :

The Pines,

September 4th, 1907.
DEAR MR. CRAWFORD,

Many thanks for Richepin's book. I am quite inclined
to believe in the fidelity and accuracy of his Borgian Study.
The authorities I never believe in are such " Tedeschi " as
" Gregorovius the unreadable " I would as soon put my
faith in " Mommsen " or " Freeman."

What a singularly original and touching story is the
Histoire de Vautre monde! But, indeed, as much might
be said for the other two. I need not say how gratified I

213

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

am by your recollection of my unfinished play. I am about
to publish what is written of it as " The Tragedy of the
Duke of Gandia."

With all good greetings from Watts-Dunton.

Very truly yours,

A. C. SWINBURNE.

Mrs. Watts-Dunton is especially delighted with the
admirable portraits you sent her, and is writing to you to
say so.

It is, perhaps, unnecessary to explain the
allusions in the above letter. " Tedeschi ' is
simply the Italian for Germans. Swinburne who
had no love for the Germans as a people, hated both
Gregorovius and Mommsen with a perfect hatred.
What his grudge against poor Freeman may have
been I do not know, but him also he regarded with
great dislike. The book by Jean Richepin that
occasioned the communication is doubtless Lei
Debuts de Cesar Borgia, the second chapter of
which is entitled Le Cadavre du due de Gandie.
The other letter is one written by Marioi
Crawford to me from Italy a few months after his
visit to us :

S. Agnello di Sorrento (Napoli)
Torre San Nicola,
San Nicola Arcella,

Provincia di Cosenza,

Sept. 12th, 1907.
DEAR MRS. WATTS-DUNTON,

Many thanks for your kind and welcome letter, and

214

A WELCOME VISITOR

for the Book Monthly, when it comes. It ought to come
dawdling along a couple of days after the letter itself, but
this is an out-of-the-way place. I wish you could see it.
Walls eighteen feet thick, sea, rocks, more sea and more
rocks, and no habitation visible except a haunted house
below, near the beach, and the big half-ruined building on
the hill where my farmer lives.

I cannot tell you how much I value your husband's
high opinion of " The Cigarette Maker," nor how grateful
I am for his open praise of it. I wish I had written twenty
better, but there is hardly one I think so good. Mr.
Swinburne told me he liked the " Roman Singer " it must
be our Italy that appealed to him, for he loves it as well
as I do, and has written undying words about it, which I
never shall.

May I ask you a question " on the sly," as you put it?
Or even two ? The first is this. In a very unscholarly way,
I am very fond of the Greek poets, and I potter amongst
the gardens of the Anthology on my own account. I found
lately a very beautiful Epitaph of four lines, by an unknown
author, " On a friend." Do you think that by any diplo-
macy it would be possible to bring it to Mr. Swinburne's
notice, in the bare hope that he might do it into his
matchless English, for all men and for all time? If you
think so, I will copy the lines and send them to you. No
one, living or dead, ever turned Greek into English as he
does here and there through his poems. I do not believe
he even knows that scholars have picked out gems here and
there and have printed them as his, in their notes.

The other question is, can Mr. Watts-Dunton let me
have the sheets of " The Tragedy of the Duke of Gandia "
a little early, in order that I may write a review of it in one
of the big English Reviews? I think I might do it not

215

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

as it deserves but as well as a professional reviewer, and it
would be a labour of love.

Forgive this long letter, I am glad you like the photo-
graph yes, Mr. Swinburne wrote that you had received it
and were pleased.

I leave here on the 15th for my real home, and shall
be there off and on all the winter.

With warm greetings to your husband, and sincerest
thanks to Mr. Swinburne for his interesting letter about the
" Tedeschi " and " Gregorovius the unreadable."

Most sincerely yours,

MARION CRAWFORD.

216

CHAPTER XVIII

MISCELLANEA

ABOUT anything of a mechanical nature Swinburne
had the most primitive ideas. He could poke a
fire after a fashion ; and, as we have seen, he
could light his candles after another fashion. But
he regarded all machinery as belonging to a world
outside his ken. This inability to understand
enhanced the awe and admiration with which he
regarded the simple contrivances intended to add
to the ease of everyday life. His intelligence was
so confined to poetry and imaginative literature
that even the mechanism of a soda-water syphon
was beyond him. When for the first time I man-
ipulated one in his presence, he gazed fixedly at
me, evincing considerable apprehension for my
safety. I succeeded in releasing a gentle stream
into my glass. When I stopped, he said with an
accent of admiration and surprise, " How cleverly

217

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

you did that; I couldn't have done it." I could
disclaim the compliment, but I could not truthfully
contradict the second part of his comment. I have
seen him approach a refractory window-sash with
the reluctance of one about to grasp a bunch of
nettles, but if the sash remained obstinate under
his treatment he would hurl at it a dazzling
selection of epithets in at least three different
languages. It was a liberal education in swear-
words to hear him. I tried to catch the phrases
as they dropped in quick succession from his lips ;
but knowing only English and French, most of his
angry eloquence was lost to me. Some of it was
no doubt imprecation in the purest Attic Greek.

Foremost among the mechanical arts of which
he approved was photography. He spoke enthusi-
astically of its results and pronounced them
' ' tremendously clever. ' ' He raved eulogistically
over some snapshots of children done by a cousin
of his. The meaning of the phrase, " You touch
the button, we do the rest," would have floored
him utterly, for he regarded the little pictures
almost as works of art.

Although I have seen Walter scores of times
with a pad before him writing his own letters, he
more often than not dictated them. He was never
slow to employ any mechanical device which he

218

MISCELLANEA

thought would make life easier. In his enthusiasm
for science he was eager for experiments. Not
so the Bard in this he was Walter's exact
opposite. He never enquired the why and the
wherefore of such things, or whence and by
whom came any invention. I believe Swinburne
resented even a business letter that was
type- written, whereas Walter welcomed the
machine-made epistle as affording him relief from
deciphering the sometimes awful writing of his
correspondents. Under the impression that such
a method as typewriting would, with practice,
enable him at least to write his own letters, he was
eager to purchase one of the numerous machines
on the market. We wrote to several companies
and for weeks we were deluged with correspon-
dence, descriptive catalogues and machines. I
had learnt to type on a hired machine in anticipa-
tion of the day when we should acquire one of
our own, and in order that I should be able in
turn to teach Walter.

Never shall I forget the arrival of those
type-writers ! Their escorts from the different
companies would leave them at The Pines for a
week or more on trial. At one time we had
four of them simultaneously in the, house. Poor
Walter was worried to death between the lot of

219

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

them, not knowing which to choose, and with
each agent praising his own wares. The man
from " Remington's" and the " Smith Premier"
man would meet in the hall and glare fiercely at
each other one day, whilst on another, the
" Hammond ' agent would barge into the
' ' Blick " or the ' * Yost ' ' clerk as he entered or
departed with his own particular machine. Even-
tually one was selected, and Walter began his
lessons in peace and comfort.

What fun we had in the evenings ! He proved
quite an apt pupil, and when he didn't forget to
" shift the key " or strike the lever that produces
the spacing, or make some other minor fault, his
progress was satisfactory, if slow. I was begin-
ning to feel quite proud of my pupil, and one day
when we went to Onslow Square to visit
Algernon's sister Isabel, I carried a specimen of
Walter's best and latest effort with me. She
thought it wonderful ; and turning to me with an
eager smile on her charming face, she exclaimed
excitedly, " Oh, Clara, if you would but teach dear
Algernon how to type, how delightful that would
be ! ' The incongruity of such an idea had the
effect of 'making Walter and me almost double up
with laughter. But Isabel, thinking, no doubt, that
this contrivance had come as a boon and a blessing

220

MISCELLANEA

to relieve her brother from the tiresome effort of
wielding a pen, was oblivious of the fact that
Algernon would not and could not be taught.

In his ineptitude with regard to mechanics
Swinburne was untrue to the doctrine of heredity.
His immediate forbears found a great attraction
in them. On this point I may quote an obser-
vation made by my husband.

In dealing with the poet's little book on Dickens
he says, "It is interesting to remark that Swin-
burne's father, Admiral Swinburne, was in his
own way almost as remarkable as his grandfather.
His ability showed itself in a direction in which the
poet was strangely deficient mechanics. He spent
much of his time in his carpenter's workshop. He
invented more than one mechanical device for
which he ought to have taken out a patent. I
myself possess one of these devices given me by
Lady Mary Gordon. It has always been a special
wonder to visitors to The Pines."

Far from being astonished at A. C. S.'s lack
of mechanical knowledge, I am disposed to
wonder how a man who added so many
treasures to English literature managed to get
through so much general reading as he did.
Barring scientific works, he could read pretty
nearly anything, from poetry, history and

221

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

philosophy down to " Yellowbacks " and lime-
ricks. And he usually found something to admire
in them all and often something to-^boSSE^
He was, I remember, extremely fond of TJiackeray.
' ' The Newcomes ' ' was one of his favourite novelST"
and Ethel Newcbme was his favourite heroine in
fiction. Ethel, I have always thought, must have
appealed to him as resembling some member of his
own family, perhaps one of his sisters.

He never wearied of discussing his favourite
novels, and dwelt with pathetic insistence on the
peculiarities of the various characters. He was
as zealous as an evangelist in his endeavour to
secure converts to his literary beliefs. He tried
to convert me some ; tim"es with success. He
introduced me to Jane Austen's " Emma " the
characters in that book being to him living and
faithful friends.

When I had finished reading " Emma " he put
me through quite an examination on the book.
His every question began with " Do you
remember? " or, "I know you have forgotten."
He was delighted that I had noticed how fussy
Mr. Wodehouse became about the way in which
his gruel was prepared, and asked me if I would
have taken the same, pains as Emma in order to
meet her father's taste in it. He had a fervent

222

MISCELLANEA

and almost affectionate appreciation for the work
of Jane Austen, and was fond of picturing the
England she knew through her eyes. Often I
heard him exclaim when referring to " Emma " :
" What a queer little England it must have been
then, to be sure ! '

Swinburne knew no German, nor do I rememberX
having seen a German book on his shelves. He *
disliked the Teuton, and entertained no exalted
opinion of his literature. His passionate love of
France and of everything French was attributable,
I imagine, to the fact that Victor Hugo was
Frenchman.

With Hugo he had a very voluminous corres-
pondence, and he kept a large number of his
letters. These I was asked to translate into
English. The task was not an easy one, owing
to the characteristically literary handwriting of the
Master.

When talking about Hugo, the Bard would often
lapse into French, and although he had never
stayed long in France, he spoke it with a true
Parisian accent, and with the ease of one talking
in his mother tongue. His achievements in French
prose and poetry are convincing proofs of his
mastery of that language.

Believing that biography should not avoid the

223

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

amusing simply because the smiles evoked are at
its subject's expense, I give the following story, for
which I am indebted to Mrs. Alys Eyre Macklin
who had it direct from her friend Tola Dorian.
When Swinburne and my husband visited Paris in
November, 1882, to witness the performance of
Hugo's Le Roi s'amuse, it was arranged that they
should meet the great Frenchman at a dinner at
his house. Tola Dorian was an almost daily
visitor there, and being Swinburne's translator
and friend, she was asked to be hostess on the
great occasion. This is how she described the
meeting :

" It was a cold, dreary day, and poor Hugo was
feeling very irritable and nervous, full of aches
and pains, more than usually deaf, and in one of
his worst moods. It was pitiful to see how he
struggled with his .weakness ; he was like a lion in
a net. I told them not to bring the visitors
straight in to him, feeling I had better see them
first to explain that their host was not in a normal
frame of mind, but when Swinburne arrived alone,
I saw that he also was in a highly nervous condition.

" ' Watts was not able to come,' he burst out
excitedly. ' He has toothache. The poor fellow
is suffering agonies. I ought never to have left
him. I must get back as soon as possible.'

224

STATUETTE OF VICTOR HUGO
(ONE OF SWINBURNE'S MOST CHERISHED POSSESSIONS)

MISCELLANEA

" Now, Swinburne also was deaf, and I shall
never forget the scene that followed. Trembling
with agitation, he went off into what sounded like
a carefully prepared speech full of Eastern hyper-
bole : Victor Hugo was the great sun round which
the little stars, etc., etc., etc. Hugo sat with his
head bent forward, his hand to his ear, and his
efforts to catch the words gave his face a
threatening expression, and his terse ' What does
he say? What does he say?' sounded lite a growl.
This did nothing to tranquillise Swinburne, who
grew more and more nervous as he began at the
beginning again.

" The result was the same, and I had to come
to the rescue as interpreter.

" Had it not been so pathetic, it would all have
been intensely funny. All through the meal I had
to continue to act as interpreter, and at intervals
Swinburne kept on saying to me in an undertone,
' I ought never to have left him. AH alone in
the hotel and the poor fellow was suffering
agonies!' The climax came when, at dessert,
Victor Hugo drank the health of his guest, and
Swinburne, raising his glass to toast the ' great
master,' in homage, threw the empty glass over
his shoulder.

" Victor Hugo did not grasp the full meaning

p 225

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

of the action, and he only stared at the shattered
fragments. A kind of childish avarice had
developed in him with advancing years, and this
got the upper hand of him as he muttered : '"And
one of the best glasses too! One of the best
glasses ! ' And that was his refrain long after the
poet had left."

A funny story may be too good to lose, but I
should not like the readers of this one to regard it
as any sort of anti-climax to the sincere and glow-
ing praise which Hugo bestowed on " le premier
poete anglais actuel >; who touched the " deux
times " of lyric verse and tragic drama.

In order to complete his book " The Age of
Shakespeare," Swinburne wished to see a copy of
two plays by William Rowley "All's Lost by
Lust" and "A New Wonder: a Woman Never
Vext." So one day the Bard, Walter and I
started off for the British Museum. The way was
made smooth for us by a letter written before-
hand to the late Mr. Fortescue.

When we arrived at the famous library, we were
met by Mr. Fortescue and conducted through a
private door into a very secluded little library.
Sitting working at a table in this apartment was a

226

MISCELLANEA

tall, white-bearded and strikingly handsome man
,who flashed a keen glance at Swinburne when we
entered.

When the official brought Swinburne his
precious Rowley, he directed the poet to a seat
near that of the venerable student whom I have
described. Once absorbed in his Rowley, Swin-
burne had eyes for naught else, so my husband and
I left him to his labours and went for a stroll
through the galleries of the Museum. When we
were fairly out of earshot Walter confided to me
that Swinburne's good-looking old vis-a-vis was
Dr. Furnivall, the eminent Shakespearean scholar,
with whom, years before, Swinburne had carried
on an epistolary duel in the press. The epithets
which the antagonists hurled at each other during
their quarrel were both ingenious and indecorous,
to say the least of it. When we returned to
Swinburne we found that he had completed his
study of Rowley ; but he was evidently still
in complete ignorance of the identity of the gentle-
man with whom he had been sharing the room.
After we left the private library and were in a quiet
corner, Walter said to Swinburne, " I say, do you
know who it was you had sitting next you ?" " No.
Who was it? " asked the other. "Your friend,
Furnivafl," was my husband's illuminating

227

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

reply. " Tiens! Was that the dog?" exclaimed
Swinburne, without a trace of ill-humour.

During our Museum visit Mr. Fortescue took us
into the King's Library and led us to a glass-case
in which was enshrined the extremely rare first
edition of " Hamlet." He unlocked the case, took
out the precious volume, and, with great solemnity,
placed it in Swinburne's hands. I shall never
forget the look of rapturous awe on the poet's face
as he turned the pages of the priceless book. He
spoke no word. His wonder and reverence were
too deep even for the customary "Ah-h-h! " He
simply gazed silent and transfixed. Then with a
look of thanks in which I could see a trace of
emotion, and with the inevitable bow he handed
back the treasure to Mr. Fortescue. That gentle-
man did not immediately return the book to its
place. With polite indulgence he handed it to
me in order that I too might inspect it, and
that I might be able to say I had read some of
Shakespeare's " Hamlet " in a first edition.

To Swinburne and Walter it had been a most
satisfactory day. To me it was a very memorable
one.

During our walk from the Museum to the
Holborn Restaurant where we were to lunch,
A. C. S. talked with eloquence and with some

228

MISCELLANEA

excitement of the Elizabethans. It seemed queer
to have for cur objective instead of a Mermaid
Tavern (or even a Rose and Crown !) an ultra-
modern place like the Holborn. I made a remark
to this effect as we took our places at a little side-
table. But by this time the poet had come back
to earth and was gazing all round him at the
marble walls and the gold-latticed ceiling.

Walter told him that the fine marble pillars had
come from Baron Grant's architectural " folly '
at Kensington. It was quite characteristic of
Swinburne that his comment on this should take
the form of a question : "And who, may I ask,
is Baron Grant? ' The band had more interest
for him than the Baron, and although he could
not hear the music of the fiddlers, he seemed
absorbingly interested in the antics of the con-
ductor, who, violin in hand, was swaying his body
about in the most wonderful rhythmic gyrations
to the strains of " The Blue Danube."

As I watched Swinburne, I could not help
speculating as to what his thoughts must be. He
had chambers for a long time in the neighbourhood
of the Holborn. In those far-off days so Walter
had told me a dancing saloon stood on part of the
site now occupied by the restaurant. Had the
Bard, I wondered, ever gone into the old Holborn

229

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Casino on the site of which he now sat sober and
sedate, enjoying his luncheon and drinking the
pint of claret that on this occasion replaced the
usual beer. I was doomed to continue wondering,
for allusions to the old uses of the floor failed to
draw him. His expression became like that of
the Heathen Chinee, " child-like and bland." To
him the past was past indeed. The hectic roysterer
of the sixties was gone : the grave and affable
patrician of the twentieth century had taken his
place.

After luncheon that ghastly contrivance known
as a " four-wheeler ' ' with the usual Rosinante
between its shafts, \vas hailed for us, and we drove
back to Putney.

In the cab Swinburne kept up an animated con-
versation about objects which he noticed en route.
He was like a schoolboy out for a half -holiday.

At Piccadilly Circus we were " held up " for a
bit. He put his head out of the window. "Ah!
That's Swan and Edgar's. I had to go there with
my mother when I was a little chap. She quite
liked the place. I hated it. Fortnum and Mason's
further down was more my sort of shop. It is
associated in my mind with all sorts of good things
to eat delicious preserved fruit, pate de foie gras,
and everything else that is nice."

230

MISCELLANEA

During the journey home the friends discussed,
not poetry, but the great question regarding the
manufacture of this appetising dish. Walter told
us horrid details about the sufferings of the
wretched goose, confined and overfed with fatten-
ing foods until his liver should become just right
for a perfect pate. Swinburne gave a very quaint
twist to the discussion at this point. Turning to
Walter he said, " It always has been a puzzle to
me why they send across the Channel for goose's
liver when we have so many fat geese here." My
husband looked at him with an obvious note of
interrogation in his eyes. Swinburne smiled his
ineffable smile and answered the unspoken question.
" Fat geese in England!" he chirruped gleefully,
" Well, there's - - and there's - - and there's
." And he went on with a list of names of
men eminent in literature, men whom I had been
taught to regard with respect. We both laughed,
so he proceeded : " Now their livers carefully
treated ought to make excellent pate de foie gras ! "

I fear it may come as a shock to the aesthetic
devotees -of Swinburne to learn that the hideous
word "tolokeX" was not foreign to his vocabulary.
Coming from him it sounded dreadful, and when

231

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

first I heard him use it, I was almost scan-
dalised. I spoke to Walter about it, and he
informed me that Swinburne had picked up this
bit of slang from Dante Gabriel. The poet-painter
maliciously revelled in the use of the argot of the
slums as he had been told that the outside world
believed that he and his friends always spoke in a
" mediaeval " style. My ear soon became inured
to the prosaic monosyllable, for Swinburne would
often say of a man he liked, "A very affable bloke,
so-and-so." Such turns of speech would be out of
place in a " Hymn to Proserpine " ; but heard in
the home circle they sounded thanks to the
speaker and his tone quite pleasant when I got
used to them.

The Bard made many quaint " finds " in the
book line. One day he brought home from
Wimbledon, " for a lark," as he expressed it, a
tiny Coleridge in the Miniature Series. It con-
tained " Kubla Khan " and other masterpieces,
and was charmingly bound in brown suede. He
was greatly excited and delighted that it included
" Christabel," my husband's favourite among
Coleridge's poems. He presented this little book
as a veritable gem from Aladdin's Cave,

232

MISCELLANEA

saying not a word then about the magnificent
" Christabel," illustrated by a facsimile of Cole-
ridge's MS., which came to Walter a few days
later.

Another " find " was a diminutive volume (two
inches tall and a little less in width) entitled,
Verbum Sempiternum or " The Thumb Bible."
The work is a reprint by Longman '(1849) of an
opuscule by John Taylor the " water-poet," from
an edition published in 1693, about forty years
after that " literary bargee's " death. Taylor's
art of summary produces something to make
historians and prophets turn in their graves.

Swinburne's favourite passage in the little book
was the address to " The Reader." It was a rare
treat to hear him read the lines in his funny
solemn tones and with appropriate gestures. I
wish I could reproduce the accent and the move-
ments. Here, however, are the verses :

With care and pains out of the Sacred Book,
This little Abstract I, for thee, have took.
And with great reverence have I cull'd from thence,
All things that are of Greatest consequence.
And all I beg, when thou tak'st it in hand,
Before thou judge, be sure to understand :
And as thy kindness thou extend 'st to me,
At any time I'll do as much for thee.
233

J. Taylor's method of conveying the truths of
Scripture in tabloid form will be most easily appre-
ciated by one example. The whole of the Book
of Proverbs is disposed of in one couplet :

The wisest Man that ever Man begot,

In heav'nly Proverbs shews what's good, what's not.

However much " kindness " one " extends " to
J. Taylor, it is difficult to believe that his " Thumb
Bible " put much strain on his piety.

Swinburne's recitation of Taylor's introductory
verses was invariably followed by a torrent 0f
complimentary extravagance : " Prodigious and
wonderful! ' " The greatest of us all."

I recall an incident which illustrates at
once the casual manner in which Swinburne
read ordinary correspondence and the attitude
he adopted towards poets who had not yet
" arrived."

On a date between 1897 and 1903, Countess
Benckendorff sent to Swinburne for his perusal and
advice a four-act play by Mr. Maurice Baring.
A. C. S. wrote a reply, placed it with the play,
and then forgot all about the matter. After his
death the play and the letter were discovered. The
following is the Bard's reply. It will be read with
some surprise by his admirers :

234

MISCELLANEA

The Pines [undated] .
MADAME,

Vous me demandez si votre niece a du talent, et si elle
peut esperer du succes.

Quant a cela, moi, qui vis hors du monde des lettres, je
ivoserais pas hasarder un avis.

A. C. SWINBURNE.

Two things will appear strange to the reader in
this communication. The first is how in the world
Swinburne could have spoken of Mr. Baring as
the niece of the Countess. Eventually a solution
of the mystery flashed upon me. The poet
evidently misread the word " Maurice ' in the
Countess's handwritten letter as ' ' ma niece. ' ' The
whole blunder is characteristic. Mr. Maurice
Baring, who, since the date of this little
misunderstanding, has taken a recognised place
among the literati of the day, will no doubt,
be merely amused by it. I confess that I
cannot explain Swinburne's description of
himself as one living outside the world of letters.
.He who was honoured by its high priests, a
voluminous contributor to the literature, poetical
and critical, of his time " outside the world of
letters " ! Why, he just palpitated with the life
of that world. He knew no other, cared for no
other. As to fearing " to hazard an opinion,"

235

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

he had no such fear when he took pen in hand ;
nor did he seem restrained by any such feeling
when he aired his opinions for the benefit of the
home-circle. It was a case this plea of severance
from the world of letters of ' * any excuse is better
than none." He simply refused to look at the un-
published work of any literary beginner, and there
was no one in the world of letters to whom a novice
could appeal with less hope of success than the
author of "Atalanta in Calydon." It sounds a
very unsympathetic attitude, but his day was too
occupied by his own work for him to find any
reserve of time to devote to the task of advising
literary aspirants.

It seems hardly credible, but Swinburne one
day gave me a sermon a veritable sermon
preached by a real priest of the Established
Church. He had kept the thing by him for years,
why, I cannot say. It was part of a collection of
miscellaneous odds and ends that he had accumu-
lated.

The author of the sermon was a certain Mr.
Purchas who had a cure of souls in Brighton.
Purchas had indulged in certain practices at the
altar which had caused him to be "persecuted '

236

MISCELLANEA

by the evangelical party. The persecution caused
the name of Purchas to be known far and wide
though his ritualistic candles and genuflexions
were as trifles to the practices that are accepted
now as a matter of course in thousands of our
churches.

Now the Purchas persecution synchronised with
the persecution, by the same party, of the author
of the " Poems and Ballads." When Swinburne
presented me with the printed discourse he
expressed a hope that it would help to build me
up in my most holy faith, and he told me that
it had been accompanied by a letter in which
the Brighton vicar expressed sympathy with the
poet under the attacks which had been made upon
him.

" I have never read the sermon," said A. C. S.
to me, " and I am confident that my reverend
correspondent never read the ' Poems and Ballads.'
Had he glanced through them he would scarcely
have ranked me in his holy regard as a sort of
Christian martyr." He struck an attitude, finger-
tips of both hands touching and held over
his breast ; his head bent sideways over one
shoulder, and the whites of his eyes showing. One
lost saw the halo which he imagined. A droll
)icture !

237

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

We always tried to make Swinburne's birthday
a festive occasion. On every anniversary shoals
of congratulatory letters and telegrams and flowers
would arrive at the house from strangers, at none
of which would the poet give even a glance. But
he would beam all over with pleasure at being
remembered by his friends and relatives. It was a
matter of some difficulty to select a suitable present
for him other than a book. He never smoked and
hated the very smell of tobacco. Walter told
me that the Bard really liked sweet biscuits, and
I was wont on anniversary occasions to present
him with these dainties in a pretty box. Once
to my great delight I came across a tin case
designed to represent a series of volumes of Sir
Walter Scott or Charles Dickens it is so long
ago that I forget which of the authors had been
honoured in this way by the biscuit manufacturer.
Nor does it matter very much as the sequel will
show. To all appearances it looked like a row of
books in handsome bindings, and no One would have
suspected that it was filled with a choice variety of
toothsome cakes. In my unwisdom, I thought this
would be quite the thing for his birthday present
and prove a tremendous surprise. I purchased
it imagining the while how pleased Swinburne
would be. How he would inspect the supposed

238

MISCELLANEA

volumes ! How he would try to pull one out,
and his sensations when he discovered that a prac-
tical joke had been played on him and that he had
been presented not with food for the mind, but
with edible delectabilities ! Fortunately, I told
.my husband of my purchase. Walter was aghast.
When he saw the dummy books, he exclaimed
with genuine horror, " Take it back at once. Get
anything but that. Algernon would be so
disgusted so enraged to think that the mind of
man could sink so low and insult literature to such
a degree as to imitate the outside covers of his
beloved authors in tin ! And worse far worse
the inside to be filled with biscuits ! '

I took the offensive box back. And I purchased
for the illustrious man the inevitable book.

239

CHAPTER XIX

THE TWO SWINBURNES

AFTER I had known Swinburne for some time
say a year after my marriage I became im-
pressed with the fact that he possessed a dual
personality.

One Swinburne, and this the more lovable, was
the man we knew in the intimacy of the domestic
circle. The other was that aspect of himself which
was presented to the visitor, the acquaintance, or
the stranger within our gates.

When Walter and I were alone with the poet
he was absolutely natural, cheerful, sometimes full
of fun, and always interested in the little things
of life. When visitors were present, Swinburne
was quite a different man. He was restrained
and reticent until something was said about a
writer or an orator or an emperor whom at the
moment he either loved or loathed. Then the

240

THE TWO SWINBURNES

sluices were opened. He burst into a flow, of
eulogy or vituperation, amazing and torrential.

If the presence of visitors brought out a
Swinburne quite different from the gay and blithe-
some boy whom Walter and I knew, it also
discovered a Swinburne physically different. Quite
a number of those who were admitted to The
Pines have, after departure, considered it quite
the right thing to publish their recollections of the
visit. And those persons have invariably noted
the poet's deafness. Less excusable and some-
times, to speak bluntly, more detestable have been
the physical personalia which have spiced articles
on Swinburne in scores of magazines and news-
papers.

Now what is the truth? As to the deafness,
neither Walter nor I found the slightest difficulty
in making him hear all we said, and that without
unduly raising the voice. The same may be said
of Mrs. Mason, Walter's sister, who was a great
favourite of the poet and possessed a particularly
soft and flexible voice. When Swinburne had
become accustomed to the timbre of a voice as in
the case of the individuals I have mentioned, con-
versation was perfectly easy as well as delightful.
For Swinburne had a fine sense of humour;
his persiflage was invariably brilliant, and his

Q 241

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

more serious utterances attained real eloquence
If visitors found him very deaf, I offer this explan-
ation. He himself was conscious of defective
hearing. He had the super-sensitiveness that is
inseparable from the poetic temperament. The
consciousness of his affliction reacted on his nerves,
and his nerves, in their turn, reacted on his ear.
He was hard of hearing, but in the presence of
strangers his deafness temporarily increased.

As to certain spasmodic movements of Swin-
burne, a jerkiness of arms and shoulders, an
uncontrollable mobility of legs and feet, I can only
say that these signs of electrical overcharge, or
defect in whatever Nature employs to maintain
equilibrium, have been exaggerated by journalists
beyond the limit of decency.

It is true that he was so carried away by
excitement that he seemed unable to keep his
feet or legs still when he recited either tragic or
purely humorous sentences. In fact his whole
body vibrated on these occasions.

But under ordinary circumstances when
strangers were not present this eccentricity of
sensitiveness was never observable. He made no
convulsive movement in the intimacy of our
domestic circle or when he was in the company
of his relatives or old and much-loved friends.

242

THE TWO SWINBURNES

People with whom he was on less familiar terms
sometimes affected him adversely with the result
that inconsiderate or malicious writers have
depicted Swinburne as a grotesquely restless being
a sort of human aspen.

My own opinion is that he was morbidly excited
by the presence of those with whom he intuitively
felt that he was not en rapport. To mental atmos-
phere he was wonderfully sensitive. The strangers
who took note of his spasmodic movements and
seemed incapable of noting anything else were
blissfully unconscious of the fact that they them-
selves were the cause of the " symptom " which
they deplored.

Swinburne was apt to resent the presence of
persons with whom he knew himself to be entirely
out of sympathy ; and he sometimes avenged him-
self by making with apparent seriousness, weird
statements which were by no means his real
convictions. Thus he has been debited with the
assertion that he took no interest in the work of any
poet who began to sing after the year 1850. This,
to my knowledge, is untrue. He was deeply
interested in such of the younger poets as evinced
genius and wrote with distinction. For instance,

243

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

of the poems of Mr. Alfred Noyes he spoke with
genuine enthusiasm. He followed that writer's
poetic career with pleasure and the appreciation
of a critical poet for a fellow craftsman. He also
had a great appreciation for the poetry of Dora
Sigerson. Hence if he expressed to a visitor
the Opinion that in contemporary verse there was
nothing new that was good and nothing good that
was new, I feel justified in making the inference
that Swinburne had been amusing himself by
pulling that visitor's leg.

It is pleasant to recall the fact that the tribute
which Mr. Noyes paid to the older poet on Swin-
burne's seventieth birthday was more fortunate
than many a well- woven wreath. The ode to
which I refer, and which immensely pleased
Swinburne, contains these memorable lines :

He needs no crown of ours, whose golden heart
Poured out its wealth so freely in pure praise
Of others : him the imperishable bays
Crown, and on Sunium's height he sits apart,
He hears immortal greetings this great morn !
Fain would we bring, we also, all we may
Some wayside flower of transitory bloom,
Frail tribute only born
To greet the gladness of this April day,
Then waste on Death's dark wind its faint perfume.
244

In acknowledging the ode Swinburne wrote the
following very charming letter :

The Pines,

March 29/7.
DEAR MR. No YES,

Thank you very cordially for your fine verses, which
have given me sincere pleasure.

I wish I could hope that my appreciation of your praise
could give you half the pleasure that Hugo's too generous
appreciation of my tributes repeatedly gave me.

Very truly yours,

A. C. SWINBURNE.

245

CHAPTER XX

THE PASSING OF THE POET

DURING my joyous married life, a dark shadow
.would occasionally obtrude itself on my sunlit
path, but not long enough to cause me to feel more
than a passing uneasiness. In the vague silhouette
was scarcely discernible the menacing figure of
Death, for as yet I knew nothing of the touch of
his icy fingers. But if the Bard were ailing, or
Walter himself out of sorts, a nameless " some-
thing " would creep into my heart. Then would
Walter very simply and beautifully try to make
me recognise in Death a kindly Harvester who
one day might enter our home and take either
himself or Swinburne to "that Kingdom beyond
Orion " as he termed the peaceful abode of dis-
carnate souls. He hated, however, to see the look
of distress on my face that such talks produced.
And when all cause for uneasiness had passed

246

THE PASSING OF THE POET

away, he would always be the first to assure me
that "All's right with the world." His com-
passionate heart was troubled by the thought
inexpressibly painful to him, that if he were called
away before Swinburne, there would be another
besides myself equally dear though in a different
way left to face life without his protecting,
brotherly love.

Swinburne knew it too, and oh, how miserable
he would be if Walter were at all ill. At such
times, try as I might, I found it well-nigh
impossible to imagine his life without Walter.

As the welfare of Algernon was always Walter's
first consideration, he brooded deeply over this
possible contingency, and deemed it advisable, in
view of its arising, to make me acquainted with his
inmost thoughts and desires regarding the care of
his beloved friend. That Swinburne was spared
the pain of losing his " best friend " (as he termed
Walter in the dedication of " Tristram") is an
argument in favour of the existence of a Special
Providence, or of that Natura Benigna of whom
the author of " The Coming of Love ' so
beautifully sang.

I have already shown the reader how youthful

247

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Swinburne essentially was, and how the abounding
energy of childhood seemed to radiate from him.
Truly he, had the effect of belonging to no age
in particular, although according to the calendar
his years numbered sixty. He was so young in
spirit, that meeting him so constantly, he seemed
in my eyes a veritable Peter Pan, a simile which
aptly pairs with Tennyson's description of him as
" a reed through which all things blow into
music."

He fostered the illusion that he was a child in
more ways than one, and I unconsciously came to
regard him, chiefly because of his heedlessness and
utter carelessness of himself, as " the boy who
wouldn't grow up."

So good was his general health, thanks no doubt
to his regular habits, that he seemed immune from
all the ills that flesh is heir to. Whenever I
asked Walter after the health of the Bard, I was
so accustomed to hearing my enquiry met with the
cheery rejoinder, "Algernon is in great force,"
that it came as a shock to me in November, 1903,
to learn that he was stricken by pneumonia.
During Swinburne's illness, I received daily
bulletins from Walter reporting the condition of
his friend. I remember vividly the anxiety I felt
on first seeing in the street the orange placard of

248

THE PASSING OF THE POET

the Pall Mall Gazette announcing in big black
letters " Serious Illness of Mr. Swinburne."

I had never known him to be dangerously ill

before, and although his state until the crisis had

passed seriously alarmed the household at The

Pines, he himself, when out of danger, refused to

believe he had been as ill as he undoubtedly had

been. He made the worst possible patient in the

world, and hated the sight of the nurses to w r hose

care, much to his own annoyance, his life was

entrusted. He didn't see the necessity for nurses,

and resented their installation in no very polite

language. When I saw him after his recovery,

and, with the understanding of one who had lain

at death's door with pneumonia two years before,

congratulated him on what was considered his

narrow escape, he pooh-poohed all mention of the

" disagreeable time," as he called it, through

which he had passed, and only chafed because he

felt temporarily weak.

His waywardness at this time made poor
Walter chronically anxious about him, and I would
hear a variety of reports, more or less amusing, of
the Bard's irresponsibility and imprudent indiffer-
ence to the rules laid down for a convalescent. A
fear of a relapse never entered his head, although,
needless to say, it was the dread of everybody else.

249

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

He recovered so marvellously that, so far as out-
ward appearances went, he was soon as well as
ever. But Walter feared the effects of an illness
that is apt to leave a trace behind it in some
form or another. In the case of Swinburne it
left, apparently without his knowing it, a chest-
weakness which rendered him slightly more
susceptible to cold. He never complained, but
Walter became very worried if he came home
at all wet from a showier. No excuses about not
needing to change or keeping luncheon waiting
were of the least use. Walter fidgeted until
he had put on dry things, and refused to look
happy until he saw the Bard appear, high and dry
and jubilant, to take his place at the table.

Being thus guarded from his own disdain of
danger from cold, Swinburne's life went tranquilly
on with never an ache or pain. But he was
vulnerable after all, and when in 1909 the first
chilliness of Spring brought with it a visitation of
influenza, he was one of its victims.

The last episode of his life was preceded by an
attack towards the end of March on Walter by the
same malady. My mother had succumbed to it
only three weeks before, and my alarm can be
better imagined than described. The doctor,
however, did not take a serious view of Walter's

250

THE PASSING OF THE POET

condition, though he ordered him to go to bed at
once. Now, Walter, even more than Swinburne,
disliked staying in bed, however out of sorts he
felt, so he did not obey the doctor's order, but
tried to keep up the whole of the day, contending
that it depressed him horribly to stay in bed
when he wanted to be up. The next day his
temperature had risen, and willy-nilly he could not
get up.

Luckily I was in very good health, and was
appointed to be my husband's nurse. Walter's
chief concern now, in spite of feeling exceedingly
ill, was how to deal with Algernon how to
account for his non-appearance at the mid-day
meal, and how to keep him out of his sick room.
The fear of his contracting the malady if he stayed
by his friend's bedside, and the danger of a fresh
attack of pneumonia, filled our minds with nervous
apprehension on the Bard's behalf. To alarm
Swinburne unnecessarily was a thing to guard
against, and Walter's non-appearance at luncheon
would be certain to give rise to comment. Duly
coached by Walter how to meet questions, I
was deputed to say that as he had a :t slight
cold " he was taking his meals in his room for
that day.

The first thing that met Swinburne's eye when

251

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

he came to lunch was Walter's empty place
opposite him. After a minute or two he turned
to me with the question I could see before I heard
it, " Where's Walter? " I repeated what I had
been authorised to say.

" Oh! " exclaimed Algernon, looking surprised
and disappointed, but not otherwise perturbed,
" I'll go and see how he is after luncheon."

Before taking his usual siesta he presented
himself in Walter's bedroom. He expressed
his solicitude, and commiserated him upon being
forced to keep to his room. " But," added he,
quite cheerfully, and with never a trace of
any misgiving, " I can just as well read to you
here, so you'll see me at the usual time ready to
go on with our book." He looked towards us
with a happy smile on his face as he made this
announcement, and with the prospect of being
able to indulge in one of his few little pleasures
he went to his own bedroom. The book he
referred to was " Ivanhoe," and for weeks past,
with unfailing regularity, upon awakening re-
freshed from his afternoon sleep, he had gone into
Walter's study to read for an hour or so from the
pages of this beautiful romance.

Punctually at the appointed hour, a tap was
heard at the bedroom door, and there stood the

252

Bard patiently awaiting permission to enter. He
walked straight up to Walter's bedside and took a
seat beside him. He had " Ivanhoe " in his hand
all ready to begin. Before reading, he gave a
brief synopsis of the events occurring in the pre-
ceding chapter, and of those about to follow a
usual custom with him when reading a book they
both knew well. Then, looking at me for an
instant, expecting me either to get up and
leave them alone, or sit where I was and listen,
he turned to the place where they had left off
the day before and asked, " Shall we begin? "
But Walter suggested that he might catch his cold
if he sat near him for even half-an-hour, and sug-
gested that they should postpone the reading till
to-morrow, when they would be able to continue
as usual. Swinburne looked woefully disappointed
at being thus banished, and turning his gaze in my
direction, he enquired, "And will Clara stay and
read it to you then ? ' ' Walter assured him I would
do nothing of the kind, and promised that only he
should continue the narrative, explaining that as
he was really not at all well, the doctor thought
it advisable that I should be at hand to wait on
him.

Swinburne appeared satisfied with this answer,
and expressed his sorrow at his friend's condition.

253

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

He seemed depressed, and just before leaving the
room he said to me with rather a pathetic ring in
his voice, and more than a suspicion of a sigh,
"Ah, you are the privileged one ! ' But with the
anticipation of resuming " Ivanhoe ' on the
morrow, he regained his equanimity. Later,
when he returned with the evening paper, in which
he had discovered some item of news that he felt
compelled to impart to us, he was as jolly as ever,
and was allowed to stay for a little while and read
it out.

The next day was cold and blustering, and
Walter could guess what the weather would be
like outside. He sent me to ascertain if Swinburne
had gone out, and if he was still indoors, I was told
to ask him not to go for his usual four-mile tramp
across the Common. But he had already started
a little earlier than usual a circumstance, which I
explained as an attempt to obtain a remedy for a
surfeit of his own society.

All the time he was out, Walter was wondering
about him and fuming over his recklessness, for
of course we knew he had not put on an over-
coat despite the keenness of the air and the
lowering clouds.

As soon as we heard him mounting the stairs it
was easy to hear him, for he had a habit of noisily

254

THE PASSING OF THE POET

kicking each stair in his ascent the " Colonel "*
went out to the landing to meet him and tell him
to make haste and change.

He appeared in the doorway, boisterously
happy, but very wet. He had enjoyed the
exercise because of the rain, not in spite of it, and
looked exhilarated and well. Walter remonstrated
with him for venturing out on such a day, telling
him that such weather was enough to chill anybody
to death. Of course the Bard could not agree
with him. He always contended rain never did
him any harm, and that he liked to feel it beating
against his face.

What a " Peter Pan " he looked as he stood
there laughing, and not in the least concerned
about himself! But he had caught cold, and
when in the late afternoon he paid us another
visit, " to see how Walter was getting on," he
looked weary and listless, in strange contrast to the
picture he had presented in the earlier part of the
day. He did not even suggest another chapter
or two of " Ivanhoe," which he had so earnestly
desired the afternoon before, and went downstairs
looking as unlike himself as possible.

On April 2nd, in order to prevent a repetition of

* My husband's secretary, Edmund Hake, called " Colonel "
as a joke.

256

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

his escapade of the day before, the weather still
continuing cold and damp, some little time before
the hour for him to start, Walter sent a very
peremptory message to him absolutely forbidding
him to go out. The next morning we were con-
siderably surprised to learn that he had not left
his room, and had requested the maid to bring
his breakfast up to him, as he intended to stay
where he was. She told us that he seemed quite
bright, and was laughing over the book he was
reading as he lay in bed. Such an unusual
proceeding naturally alarmed us, for Swinburne
despised the malade imaginaire. Walter looked
very worried, and I remember how amused he was
at my knowledge of the Bard's funny little ways
when I endeavoured to cheer him by suggesting
that perhaps he was only bored, and was staying
in bed because he (Walter) was doing likewise.
When the doctor arrived to pay his daily visit,
my husband asked him to "go in and have a look
at Swinburne."

The friends' bedrooms adjoined, and the doors
being left open it was quite easy to hear all that
the doctor said. Owing to Swinburne's deafness,
he had to speak with his voice considerably raised
in order that Algernon could catch his words. I
remember vividly hearing him ask in a loud and

256

THE PASSING OF THE POET

cheery tone, "And how are you, sir? " I could
not catch the poor Bard's reply. I expect he was
none too pleased to receive a visit from one of the
faculty. Presently the voice of the doctor was again
heard telling A. C. S. how much more comfortable
he would be in his big study downstairs, where there
was a coal fire, than in his bedroom where there
was only a gas stove. We anxiously awaited the
doctor's verdict, and in a few minutes he appeared
announcing that Swinburne was very ill, and that
he feared complications as the illness developed.

Two trained nurses were quickly on the scene,
and Sir Thomas Barlow was telephoned for to
consult with Dr. White. But Sir Thomas
Barlow was away spending Easter on the
Continent, and Sir Douglas Powell was called in.
Both doctors took a grave view of the case, and
when I next saw Swinburne he was lying on the
little bed that had been hastily prepared for him
in his library. Even then he was occasionally
delirious, and our anxiety deepened. A nurse
was stationed on the landing outside his room with
the door open, for in his lucid moments it would
have irritated him to see a strange woman sitting
by his bedside. Walter prepared both nurses for
the possibility that their presence might excite
their distinguished patient to the utterance of

R 257

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

" Elizabethan language," and requested them n<
to go near him except when absolutely necessary.
Upstairs in his room, although by now he wj
gaining strength, Walter lay in bed strained an<
nervous, wondering what the issue would be. Al
intervals I would go down to Swinburne to take
little messages to him from Walter. I found that
he absolutely refused to allow the nurse
administer oxygen. Though he was sometime
delirious, he was conscious enough to know that
a stranger was bending over him, and when she
attempted to place the tube near his mouth he
beat it away with his hands, crying Out in ai
enfeebled voice, " Take it away, take it away !

But the nurse's science told her that oxygen vri
necessary, and accordingly Walter's influence w*
asked for and promptly used. Acting as Walter'*
proxy, I went to Swinburne's bedside and told hii
that Walter considered the oxygen to be akin t(
a sea-breeze, and that it would do him all the goo<
in the world. He opened his eyes and gladb
allowed me to put the tube quite near his mouth
as he inhaled the vapour without another murmur.

It was painful sometimes to watch him hurl the
blankets off his chest and shoulders as he tossed
about in a state of high fever. No sooner had the
nurse or I replaced them than he would again try

258

THE PASSING OF THE POET

to fling them off. Occasionally he would talk
wildly for a long while without stopping. I
remember the nurse asked me in what language
he was talking. I could catch a word here and there
as he muttered long sentences with astonishing
rapidity, and an occasional phrase in his disjointed
monologue made me guess that he was speaking
or reciting in Greek. I told Walter about this :
he did not contradict me, pathetically sighing,
"Ah, poor boy, poor boy! '

I have no wish to start an occult legend, yet I feel
my account of Swinburne's death would be incom-
plete if I did not mention a curious sense of hearing
presaging chords of music which invaded me
whenever I entered his room and found him either
breathing heavily or moaning in broken accents in
uneasy sleep. All was so still and quiet in that
book-lined chamber, and save for his low murmurs,
not a sound, even from without, could be heard.

It did not matter now which of us held the
oxygen to his parched and feverish lips, for he
knew no one.

The doctor called again towards evening and
gave no ray of hope. He knew Swinburne must
die. Double pneumonia was fast gaining
mastery over him in rapid strides. Many letters
and telegrams of congratulation on his birthday

259

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

(April 5th) still lay unopened on his table, and
the lovely bunch of daffodils that a lady, a
stranger, had brought were still fresh and bloom-
ing. At any other time how both he and Walter
would have rhapsodised over these flowers that told
of the arrival of Spring. I know Shakespeare's
lovely lines from " The Winter's Tale " would
assuredly have been quoted. They were so
intensely admired by both, and not only at this
season, but often at other times would I hear of
the

Daffodils

That come before the swallow dares, and take

The winds of March with beauty.

Soon after Dr. White had left the room, the
nurse turned to me and asked Swinburne's age.
I told her he had just passed his seventy-third
birthday. She made no comment, but ejaculated
with a gloomy significance of tone which I think
I shall never forget, " Ah, Ah ! ' It was this
tone, far more than the doctor's foreboding
expression as he cast his eyes towards poor uncon-
scious Algernon, that impressed me with a feeling
of doom.

Late that same evening when I was sitting
beside Walter, I told him how unhappy I had
felt all day, and how the nurse's exclamation had

260

THE PASSING OF THE POET

affected me. It was then about ten o'clock, and
we heard the night-nurse pass the door on her way
downstairs.

After thinking deeply for some time, as if he,
too, felt the end was approaching, Walter turned to
me and said, " Clara, help me on with my dressing-
gown. I'm going down to see Algernon." He was
very weak, and when I helped him into the coat
as he stood on the floor for the first time in ten
days he trembled. With my aid he got to the top
of the stairs, and holding on to the banisters
succeeded in descending the staircase. As I
watched his progress from the landing and saw
him enter Swinburne's room, I felt my heart
beating violently, and for a moment I seemed to
stop breathing.

He was not gone very long, and when he
returned to the bedroom it was some time before
he could speak. Then it was only to strain me
to him and murmur in a broken voice, " Oh,
Clara, Clara! ' I knew just how he must be
feeling, and for some time neither of us spoke. I
sat holding his hand and pressing it gently. After
a few minutes he returned my pressure, looked
up bravely in my face, and with never a break in
his voice said, " Go and tell the night-nurse to
come here and speak to me." When she appeared

261

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

he told her in a quiet collected tone, " If you se<
any change in the night, come and tell me." Bui
there was no occasion to arouse him, and it was
not till about ten o'clock the next morning (April
10) that Swinburne passed very quietly and peace-
fully away. He had been ill just a week.

What the death of Algernon meant to Walter
cannot be expressed in words. I don't think he
ever got over it.

But weak and shaken as he was, his faculties
had lo be on the alert, and he at once braced
himself to the business ahead of him in connection
with Swinburne's funeral. There was much that
necessitated his immediate attention, and for the
time being he was obliged to devote himself to it.

In the afternoon of April 10 we received a visit
from his and Algernon's old friend, William M.
Rossetti, who came down to Putney accompanied
by his daughter Helen directly he received th(
tragic news.

The sight of this dear and devoted comrade at
such a moment affected my poor Walter to tears,
and when I returned to the room after leaving
them for some time, I found William's ai
round his shoulders as he endeavoured to comfoi

m

THE PASSING OF THE POET

him. But what particularly arrested my eye at
that moment was the photograph that lay on the
bed ; it had not been there before, and they had
evidently been discussing it. It was one of D. G.
Rossetti's drawings, " The Question," which
represents a young man in the prime of life
gazing resolutely into the impenetrable face of
the Sphinx, who is represented as a creature half-
woman and half -beast, with outstretched wings on
the shoulders. A youth on the threshold of
manhood has fallen on his knees by the wayside,
bent on solving the great riddle, whilst an old man,
leaning on his staff, is advancing from the right
with feeble gait to ask of the Sphinx the great
question, " Whither? "

This incident made a deep impression on my
mind, for though I did not know what the con-
versation had been, it was clear it had to do with
thoughts suggested by the passing of Algernon.

How splendid and noble Swinburne looked as
he lay dead in that room where for more than
thirty years he had worked and thought. There
was the same calm and placid look of well-being
that had characterised him in life. I was so
struck by the likeness he bore to Tennyson, of
whom a beautiful photogravure portrait after the
painting by Millais was hanging in the next room,

263

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

that I called Dr. White in to look at it. Each
man possessed a magnificent domed forehead ;
Tennyson's head rose higher above the frontal
bones, but the breadth across the head which was
so noticeable a feature in Swinburne when alive,
appeared less so in death and heightened the
resemblance.

When I took William Rossetti into the death-
chamber he was very deeply affected as he gazed
for the last time upon the features of his friend.
And he, who had known Swinburne for so many
years, agreed with me when I pointed out the
resemblance to Tennyson.

After William and his daughter had gone, I
went alone into the familiar room, and gazed my
fill into Swinburne's face, and thought and thought
for a long while. In the stillness, I felt a sense of
calm steal over me. Then, perhaps because I had
seen the book he had been reading before he was
brought downstairs (" Investigations of the
Chevalier Dupin") my thoughts drifted to Poe's
Raven, whose " Nevermore " was sounding in my
brain. And as I thought of the bereaved hero of
that poem and of the mystic bird perched eternally
above his door, I involuntarily looked at the
portrait of Mazzini, hanging above the bureau in
the chamber of death. That melancholy face of

234

THE PASSING OF THE POET

fixed resolve seemed that of a Raven transformed
to a human being, and I almost imagined I heard
the " Nevermore."

And then I felt I wanted to see Swinburne's
eyes once again, even though it were in death. I
ventured to raise his eyelids very gently, and found
that they looked just as I had so often seen them,
infinitely kind. With the memory of all he
meant to me I left the room.

265

CHAPTER XXI

"LOST TO SIGHT "

TELEGRAMS and letters from all quarters arrived |
by every post. Walter was far too ill to answer
them ; but to special friends of his and Swinburne's
he commissioned me to reply by telegram. I
remember an especially long one I sent to the
dead poet's friend, Lady Ritchie.

It was a very trying time, relieved by visits from
near and dear friends. Mr. and Mrs. Holman
Hunt arrived one day, and offered the rare balm
of understanding sympathy that goes direct to
the heart. Mr. Ernest Rhys, the Welsh poet,
and Mr. James Douglas, a frequent visitor and
special friend of both my husband and Swinburne,
came on alternate afternoons, and did Walter
much good. Dear Lady Archibald Campbell
assured us with characteristic optimism that " Our
dear Bard is just as happy as ever in yonder

266

"LOST TO SIGHT'

Sphere." In beautiful and touching fashion, the
Ranee of Sarawak paid her last adieux to one
towards whom she felt a very tender regard.
Walter was not well enough to see her on the day
she called. She asked me, I well remember, in a
voice trembling with tears, to be allowed to go
into Swinburne's room and place quite near his
heart the posy of flowers she had brought. I felt
she would prefer to be alone in the death-chamber
and did not follow her. She stayed for a little
while to think her own sweet thoughts in solitude,
and when she reappeared she was deeply moved.
Afterwards, when we were in the drawing-room,
I heard again from her lips of the visits (often
alluded to by the Bard) which he had paid to her
son Bertram when he was ill and found difficulty
in recovering his health after a severe illness.
These visits had been a pleasure to the poet as well
as to the invalid, whom dear Swinburne had much
cheered. The memory of the poet's kindness
towards her suffering boy had sown the seeds of
deep and lasting gratitude in the Ranee's tender
heart. By this time the library where Swinburne
lay resembled a fairy bower, so full was it of beauti-
ful flowers. Whilst scores of wreaths were ranged
round his bier, I placed on the coffin itself only a
tribute of laurel leaves " To Algernon with

267

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

Walter's love." When I told my husband what
I had done, he said tenderly, " That was right,
dear."

A sweet token that would, I know, have pleased
the poet more than any other, was the little bunch
of Spring flowers sent by a tiny admirer. Between
ruled lines, on a card on which was easily discern-
ible the pencil marks of the composer of the
sentence, and inked over by an obviously very
youthful hand, was this inscription :

" From Robin "

The little boy to whom Mr. Swinburne
used to wave his hand.

Lovely was the day that saw Swinburne's
mortal remains taken to their last resting-place.
Allowing that the sea would have been the ideal
cemetery for the man who sang its glories more
divinely than any other Englishman, no other place
on earth could have been found more appropriate
than the little Island he loved. As the writer of
an Isle of Weight guide-book remarks, the church-
yard at Bonchurch is so beautiful that, to quote
r Shelley, it might make one " in love with death "

f

to think one .would be buried in so sweet a place.

One incident which occurred on the journey

across the Solent created an indelible impression

on those who witnessed it.

268

* LOST TO SIGHT "

We had reached the point where for a few
minutes the little steamer was apparently out of
sight of land. The sea was quite calm, and as I
stood on the upper deck looking down at the
tarpaulin-covered coffin in the bows of the deck
below me, one great sunlit wave came sweeping
towards us as if to enfold that dark burden in
its embrace. Right over the bows and the coffin
the white glory of the foam swept as if to take
farewell of the sea's great lover in one last
caress. This incident will remind lovers of Shelley
of the legend of the sea-bird which hovered over
his pyre.

That Swinburne's funeral was wot the unor-
thodox ceremony he had desired was plain enough
to all those who saw it. For myself, speaking as
an eye-witness, the simple Church of England
Service was very beautiful, and I do not believe
that Swinburne in his heart of hearts was so
violently agnostic and opposed to Christianity as
his hatred of the crimes of bigotry has led people to
think. His letters to his mother in the book by his
cousin, Mrs. Leith, " The Boyhood of Algernon
Charles Swinburne," show what sane and sweet
ideas regarding the after-life he entertained. To
her whom he loved so dearly he wrote in 1892 :
" It is so beautiful and delightful to think of 'being

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

together when this life is over,' as you say, and
of seeing things no longer ' in a glass darkly,' and
all who have ever tried to do a little bit of what
they thought right being brought together if
what they thought right was not absolutely wicked
and shocking like the beliefs of persecutors, and
understanding and loving each other that I some-
times feel as if it ought hardly to be talked about.'

Undoubtedly Swinburne did not deny the
existence of a life beyond the grave.

Again I quote from Mrs. Leith's book in another
letter to his mother written in 1885 just after the
death of Victor Hugo : " When I think of his
(Hugo's) intense earnestness of faith in a future
life and a better world than this, and remember
how fervently Mazzini always urged upon all who
loved him the necessity of that belief and the
certainty of its actual truth, I feel very deeply that
they must have been right or at least that they
should have been however deep and difficult the
mystery which was so clear and transparent to
their inspired and exalted minds may seem to such

as mine.'

I don't know what conclusions my husband and
Algernon had come to in different conversations
on the vexed subjects of immortality and funeral
rites ; but I understood that the poet expressed a

270

"LOST TO SIGHT"

wish that orthodox ritual should be omitted at his
funeral. Unfortunately his will conveyed no instruc-
tions respecting the disposal of his remains ; and
though Walter did all he could to have the funeral
conducted in harmony with the dead man's views,
he was far too unwell to exert the necessary
pressure or exercise the required ingenuity to have
things done in accordance with them.

To Sir John Swinburne (the poet's cousin) who
acompanied me down to Bonchurch, my husband
gave as lucid instructions as was possible in
telegrams regarding that part of the religious
service which was to be performed ; and the night
before the ceremony, the Rector of Bonchurch
had been advised that in deference to the poet's
wishes the Church of England Burial Service must
not be used. In the railway-carriage during the
journey to Ventnor, Sir John rehearsed his part to
me, to Swinburne's cousin, Lord Gwydyr, and to
the latter's son-in-law, Sir John Henniker Heaton,
until he quite tired us out.

We were all under the impression that every-
thing would go as arranged, and that the service
would be conducted with due regard for the wishes
of the illustrious dead. But, in the circumstances,
there was nothing to be done. The Rector of
Bonchurch met the coffin as it left the hearse and

271

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

immediately began reading the first lines of the
Burial Service as the mourners walked in procession
to the grave. There was no preliminary service
held in the Church, but apart from this concession
possibly an important one Swinburne's body
was consigned to the grave in accordance with the
rites of the Established Church of England.

As an old friend of the poet tersely remarked
after the obsequies were over, " You see, you
can't even get buried the way you want without
your relations interfering."

The Free- Thinkers' press was very acrimonious
after Swinburne's funeral. Pamphlets galore
arrived for Walter, but I took care that he saw
none of them. Also for me, for the writers imag-
ined I was the person responsible for the funeral
service, seeing I had represented my husband at
the graveside. I was invited to enter into
controversy with a variety of persons who deal in
Free Thought. If they had searched the globe,
they could not have fastened on anyone mOr<
unfitted to take part in such a duel of words, an(
the matter ended with my silence. When Waltei
died in June, 1914, and they again attacked him-
or his memory I appealed to my friend, Mr.
Edward Clodd, at whose charming house at
Aldeburgh I then stayed for a day or two, to put

272

matters right. He replied to the offending
journal thus :

In a too cursory reading of the paragraphs by
" Mimnermus " in your July issue, his comment on the late
Theodore Watts-Dunton's assumed permission of the use
of the orthodox ritual at Swinburne's funeral escaped my
notice.

Will you permit me to say that the assumption is
wholly unwarranted? Not long before his death Mr.
Watts-Dunton repeated to me his feeling of deep vexation,
not only as to the mockery of recital of the orthodox ritual,
but also as to the placing of a cross over the remains of a
friend who was anti-Christian to the end. For such actions
the relations of Algernon Swinburne, and they alone, are
responsible.

EDWARD CLODD.

After Swinburne had been taken to his last
resting-place, the house seemed strange. His room
looked a desert, and everything there, particu-
larly the pictures of ships, reminded one of those
little things that had gone to make up his life.
Especially was this the case with a charming little
water-colour, by C. Jeffcock, of South wold Beach,
with " Boats in Brilliant Sunshine," which he had
acquired but a short time before his death and was
very fond of and justly, for one could almost feel
the wind blowing from the sea through the sails
of the boats on shore.

273

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

It was less sad to look at the portraits of his
friends who had gone before him. There was Sir
Edward Burne- Jones " Ned," as Swinburne
always called him standing in an unstudied atti-
tude on some tall steps in his studio, palette and
brushes in hand, at work on one of his large
canvases. A splendid photo of William Morris
occupied a place "on the line " near the door.
Walter Savage Landor also was placed con-
veniently for the worshipping eye. And his
books, there they were, serried rows of them, just
as Swinburne's dying eyes last saw them. Walter
never went near the room for weeks

Of all the many photographs of Swinburne, none
looked so much like the Algernon I knew as the
last one he had taken. It looked so like him thai
when he died we had this almost life-size portrait
of him placed over the mantel-piece in our sitting-
room. We felt it brought him nearer to us
we sat there.

Quite soon after his death Walter and I wen
sitting together one evening after dinner when th(
postman brought what I thought was a letter foi
Walter. The contents moved him deeply, and
noticed the tears gathering in his eyes. Turning
to me he said, " Read this, Clara ; it's the lovelies

274

" LOST TO SIGHT "

thing I've ever read about dear Algernon." It
was a poem by Alfred Noyes. I tried to read
the lines to myself without a lump coming into
my throat, but I failed in the attempt, and in turn
my eyes, too, became so dim that I could hardly
read the words. This is how the death of Swin-
burne affected one of our finest singers :

IN MEMORY OF SWINBURNE.
I.

April from shore to shore, from sea to sea,
April in heaven and on the springing spray
Buoyant with birds that sing to welcome May

And April in those eyes that mourn for thee ;

" This is my singing month ; my hawthorn tree
Burgeons once more," we seemed to hear thee say,
* This is my singing month ; my fingers stray

Over the lute. What shall the music be?"

And April answered with too great a song
For mortal lips to sing or hearts to hear,

Heard only of that high invisible throng

For whom thy song makes April all the year !

" My singing month, what bringest thou?" Her breath

Swooned with all music, and she answered^-" Death."

Some months later, when the Summer sun was
shining brightly, Walter and I looked over a
sparkling sea. The delight of reading out of doors
was healing and restful, and although Walter was
shattered in health, it was good to be alive and

275

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

happy together. One morning he produced a book
from his pocket, and laying it on my lap, he said,
" This is Algernon's ' Ivanhoe ' : do you go on
reading where he left off. We'll finish it as we sit
here looking at the waves." There was a bookmark
in Chapter XLI, so there was not much to read be-,
fore the end. That lovely incident, the most thrill-
ing in the story, the rescue of the beautiful Rebecca
by Wilfred of Ivanhoe, is related in the final four
chapters. I read them to Walter in a way I knew
he would enjoy. But as I neared the end, his eyes
looked wistfully sad, for his thoughts had flown,
as had mine, to him who had preceded me in read-
ing aloud from the book. Little had Walter
anticipated when he told Algernon that I should
not take his place, that his promise would be
unfulfilled, and that even in this small matter of
finishing " Ivanhoe " I should be, as in Walter's
sick-room, "the privileged one."

As I closed the book, I pictured the quiet grave
near the sea at Bonchurch as I had seen it on the
day the dear Bard was laid to rest. Walter fell t(
talking in a dreamy, ruminating way of Algernon.
" Dear boy, dear boy, what a splendid, lovable
fellow he was ! I miss him dreadfully." And he
added to himself sotto voce : " There's nobod]
for me to talk poetry with now." It was impos-

276

" LOST TO SIGHT '

sible for me or anybody to fill the blank in
Walter's life that the death of Algernon had made.
To take up the threads of life again after such a
tear in the web was not easy. He was even inclined
at this time to view life as a " Long Street of

^ombs," although he was naturally richly endowed
with gaiety.

I was desirous that he should regain health, and
gather as much strength as he could, and was
properly Opposed to the formation in him of
any sense of obligation to sit down and begin
writing Swinburne's " Life." The inconsiderate
people who expected him to devote his scanty
energy to biographical toil were not viewed by me
with sympathy or even patience. Neither friends
nor the public were intimately concerned with his
personal welfare ; I was. I remember that one
day, when a visitor began descanting on the desira-
bility of my husband's writing Algernon's
" Life," I cut short his eloquence by declaring,
with frowns and scowls, that biography was mere

Lodge, and Baedekerism, and that nobody wanted
my more of it. Walter was highly amused by
;< Serjeant Clara Buzfuz," as he playfully called

ic on this occasion. I knew my little prejudiced
)pinion was worth absolutely nothing but, never-

icless, Walter was comforted by it and that was

277

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

all I cared about. I got so used to snubbing
people who asked about the unwritten " Life " by
Watts-Dunton that Walter, with his tongue in
his cheek, would account for its absence by saying,
" Clara knows if she would but speak." So if
people wonder why Watts-Dunton wrote no "Life
of Swinburne "' let them in a measure blame
me. Had I chosen I could at least have goaded
him to the production of the " Life " ; but my
understanding love for him told me that his
strength was not great enough to justify him in
undertaking so emotional and tiring a task.

That Walter did wish to write such a book, I
emphatically assert. He knew his subject from
A to Z, but he never got further than writing
' ' Supplemental Note ' ' to the eighteenth impres-
sion of the " Selections from Swinburne's Poems."
He did this aftef the Christmas of 1913, and whei
I read his MS. a stab pierced my heart on reading
the introductory lines and opening sentence of tht
little article :

Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb.

Let me take warning by these noble words of Tennyson
let me remember that I may never live to write
reminiscences of Swinburne, much as I desire to do so.

278

" LOST TO SIGHT '

That literature is the poorer for not possessing
a sympathetic and complete " Life of Swinburne "
by Watts-Dunton, is undeniable, but it is not
likely that Swinburne would have welcomed any
such work by anyone. It was George Meredith
who declared, " I will horribly haunt the man who
writes my biography." Swinburne never went as
far as that. On the other hand, he never men-
tioned whom he had selected to write his Life, as
did Dante Gabriel Rossetti. But if Swinburne
had been obliged to choose a biographer, he would
certainly have selected Walter, the friend whom,
he pronounced " the first critic of our time
perhaps the largest-minded and surest-sighted of
any age."

It is a pretty well known fact that Rossetti
wished Theodore Watts more than anyone else
to write his Life. Walter used often to say to me
when he fell to talking of this wondrous and very
dear friend, " Gabriel told me everything," and
I know dear Swinburne told him everything too.
We all know that Walter could not stand far
enough away from Rossetti to write his life, and
that W. M. Rossetti, after waiting for years for
Walter to produce it, assumed the role of
biographer himself.

Tout passe, tout lasse, tout casse, says the

279

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

proverb, but the immortal works of Rossetti and
Swinburne will always remain without needing
assistance from "Lives."

It is not for me even to whisper of the place
that Swinburne holds, and perhaps will ever hold,
as the greatest lyrical poet of his century. Gener-
ations yet unborn will marvel at the wliite magic
which his poetry exerts even upon comparatively
commonplace people.

George Meredith, in the letter he wrote to
Walter the last he ever penned before he passed
away about a month after the death of Swinburne
says : " Song was his natural voice. He was
the greatest of our lyrical poets of the world's, I
could say, considering what a language he had to
wield."

For me, it is with a satisfaction not to be
measured in words that I regard the privilege
vouchsafed me in being able to call that simple-
minded great English gentleman, Algernon
Charles Swinburne, my friend.

280

CHAPTER XXII

A POET'S GRAVE

BRILLIANT sunshine and genial warmth had trans-
formed our British Autumn into a gorgeous St.
Luke's Summer. On the Sunday in October,
1920, when I revisited Bonchurch to look at
Swinburne's grave it was hard to believe that the
words " Chill October " had ever been used by a
famous painter to describe the tenth month.
Summer blooms were absent and birds were
silent ; but the churchyard still looked like a
beautiful garden.

The big crowd of people that filled it on the
day of the poet's funeral naturally precluded the
possibility of appreciating the beauties of the spot.
Even had the crowd been smaller, my mournful
feelings would have crushed any desire to take in
the little landscape, and I was practically seeing
it in its ensemble for the first time. As I

281

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

approached the entrance gates, I could hear the
notes of the church organ, for the service wi
going on.

Almost the first thing that attracts the visitor'
attention on entering the churchyard is the grouj
of graves in which members of the Swinbui
family are buried. Enclosed behind an iron BE
are five of these sepulchres. The stone slab
each is distinguished by a characteristic design,
something between a cross and an anchor, very
much in keeping with the ideas of a sailor, and
chosen, no doubt, by Admiral Swinburne on that
account. Of these five graves, those of Algernon
and Isabel are side by side, for the eldest and the
youngest of the Admiral's children were the last
to go.

Beyond this group is a second one in which
under the same kind of slabs, are the remains
of the poet's Mother and Father, Lady Jane
Swinburne, Admiral Swinburne, and his sister
Edith, who was the first of the family to die.
Personally if I may obtrude my personal
opinion I found the plain stone that covers
Swinburne's frail body satisfactory and suitable.
As I looked at the simple inscription of name
and date, I reflected that it was not the
great poet that lay there ; it was the son of a

282

A POET'S GRAVE

patrician house. It was good to think that he
who sang :

I will go back to the great sweet Mother,

Mother and lover of men, the sea.
I will go down to her, I and none other.

Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me,

slept within sound of the music of the sea he loved
so well and so glorified in his verse, but what
"Swinburne" stands for lives in the hearts and
minds of the countless thousands who love the
outpourings of his spirit.

While I was meditating in this way, the service
in the church ended. The little congregation
trooped out, and I found myself addressed by a
tall, handsome old man who identified me with the
lady whom he had seen at Algernon's funeral. He
was accompanied by a much younger man, his son,
who informed me he also remembered me, having
seen me when he called on my husband at The
Pines. But what particularly interested me was
the fact that all his life the elder man, a Mr. Daniel
Day, had had dealings with the Swinburne family,
being a sort of bailiff or agent for them. He was
also a builder, decorator, undertaker, and I don't
know what else. Moreover, he was one of the
churchwardens of the Parish Church.

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THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

The affectionate respect with which he spoke
of the poet's family, " all dead and gone now,"
touched me deeply. When he mentioned the
name of Lady Jane he lowered his voice in rever-
ence. I had heard from Walter's lips of the
effect of her death on Algernon, and as thij
survivor reminded me of the poet's grief when sh<
was buried, and we talked on, I could see how
disturbed he was at the idea of Swinburne
thought an atheist. Mr. Day, I imagine,
little, if anything at all, of the writings of A. C. S.
This would perhaps account for his indignatioi
over the charge of atheism sometimes levelled
against the writer of the " Hymn to Man." He
had an answer to that grave charge. He assured
me that, after the conclusion of the burial service
of Charlotte, Algernon knelt at the graveside with
his sisters Alice and Isabel, and prayed. That
Swinburne knelt, I can easily believe. His innate
chivalry and his affection for his sisters woulc
ensure the kneeling. But what, I wonder, was
the nature of the prayer. " I know he was nc
atheist," reiterated Mr. Day, and when h(
tentatively touched on " things he wrote,
thought it kind to say that I believed Swinburne's
agnosticism to be much like his anarchism and
republicanism a mere literary pose. The situa-

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A POET'S GRAVE

tion intrigued me. Here I was standing by the
tomb of one of England's greatest poets, talking
to a man who had known the Bard from his youth
up, but who knew practically nothing of the life-
work of this world-renowned singer.

I was glad when he permitted himself to be
switched off the vexed subject of theology. " The
last time Mr. Swinburne came here," he continued
" he asked me to go over the old place with him,
and I remember when he got to the highest part
of the cliff, he stood right on the edge looking
out over the sea with his hat off and his hair
blowing in the wind. He said, ' This is the most
beautiful spot on God's earth.' Those were his
very words. Then he began talking to himself
and reciting a lot of poetry. He was quite a long
time spouting away up there." My informant
paused, then added with a smile, "If I'd have
taken up shorthand in my young days, I might
have had a poem all to myself ! ' Looking down
at the grave again he declared solemnly once more,
" No, he was no atheist."

Mr. Day accompanied me down the quiet little
village street. In an angle of the road he pointed
out the exact spot where, one morning, he, came
across the poet tenaciously sitting astride a literally
l( prancing steed." The animal was rearing on its

285

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

hind legs, and doing its best to throw his rider. Mr.
Day looked on in alarm, greatly fearing for th<
safety of the rider whom he expected every minute
to see sprawling on the ground.

In spite of Swinburne's splendid horsemanship,
the inevitable occurred. One spirited plunge
forward and the valiant rider was unseated. Poor
Swinburne was shot out of the saddle like a shuttle-
cock, and made to feel the uncomfortable contact
of mother earth. Fortunately he was unhurt, an<
instantly picking himself up, was quickly at th(
head of the now trembling horse. Giving th(
animal one masterful look in the eyes, he vaulted
into the saddle, and with a cheery " Thank you,
Mr. Day, I'm all right, but I can't have hii
showing off here in the street, and I've taught him
a lesson to-day, I fancy," he rode off again up th<
hill with his now sobered steed well under control.

I had to cut the conversation short, for I was due
at East Dene, Swinburne's early home, which h*
now become the seat of a religious sisterhood, the
Convent of the Sacred Heart. A strangely
anomalous circumstance, it seems to me, that the
home of Swinburne's boyhood should have become
a nunnery !

286

s

A POET'S GRAVE

Lunch was given me in the refectory which, in
iwinburne's time, was the library, by Mother
O'Brien, the head of the establishment. I found
her most amiable and anxious to show me all there
was to be seen.

I was taken over the house and grounds. What
most impressed itself on my memory was Swin-
burne's bedroom, a charming apartment looking
over the sloping lawn which stretches right down
to the sea. Standing at the window one is within
a stone's throw of his grave.

On my way back through the Landslip I returned
to the grave. The Church was empty now. Not
a soul to be seen anywhere. It was deathly still.
The cold grey slab, the brief inscription of the
name, brought to my mind a thousand memories
of the man I had known and reverenced. The
poet's own lines on the death of Barry Cornwall,
came back to me and it seemed to me that they
might well be inscribed over this Bonchurch grave :

For with us shall the music and perfume that die not

dwell,
Though the dead to our dead bid welcome and we

farewell.

Now have I fulfilled the promptings of my
heart, my fingers would fain " stray over the

287

THE HOME LIFE OF SWINBURNE

lute " ; but, alas ! I am no " instrumentalist." In
writing these last lines my gaze involuntarily
travels to the open doorway where I seem to see
a familiar figure standing, and to hear, as of yore,
the gentle tones of a well-bred Eton schoolboy's
voice asking, " May I come in? ' :

288

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